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LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

The  Wine  Shop— page  27. 

“ What  is  this  ? ” — page  42. 

Messrs.  Cruucher  and  son — page  53. 

He  stooped  a little,  and  with  his  tattered  blue  cap  pointed  under 
the  carriage— page  101. 

“ Think  that  there  is  a man  who  would  give  his  life  to  keep  a life 
you  love  beside  you  ! ” — page  135. 

“ It  is  frightful,  messieurs.  How  can  the  women  and  children 
draw  water  ?” — page  151. 

Saint  Antoine — page  156. 

Still,  the  doctor,  with  shaded  forehead,  beat  his  foot  nervously 
on  the  ground— page  179. 

Dragged,  and  struck  at,  and  stifled  by  the  bunches  of  grass 
that  were  thrust  into  his  face— page  199. 

Among  the  talkers  was  Stryver,  of  the  King’s  bench  bar- 
page  211. 

The  Carmagnoli— page  247. 

Here  Mr.  Lorry  became  aware  of  a most  remarkable  goblin 
shadow  on  the  wall— page  268. 

The  trial  of  Evremonde— page  279. 

Twice  he  put  his  hand  to  the  wound  in  his  breast,  and  drew  a 
cross  in  the  air. — page  290. 

As  he  was  drawn  away,  his  wife  released  him,  and  stood  looking 
after  him — page  *297. 

His  head  and  throat  were  bare,  and  he  took  his  coat  off,  and  let 
it  drop  on  the  floor — page  305. 

“ You  might,  from  your  appearance,  be  the  wife  of  Lucifer,” 
said  Miss  Pross— page  325. 

The  third  tumbrei — page  333. 

DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

PART  ONE. 

“ I may  be  very  fond  of  penny  winkles,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  it 
don’t  follow  that  I’m  to  have  ’em  for  tea  ” — page  361. 

“ So  here’s  to  Dombey — and  son — and  daughter” — page*  379. 

Mr.  Dombey  dismounting  first  to  help  the  ladies  out— page  389. 

“ Why,  what  can  you  want  with  Dombey  and  Son’s  ? ’’—page  409. 

Listening  to  the  sea — page  441. 

Sat  down  in  a chair,  and  fell  into  a silent  fit  of  laughter- 
page  459. 

Walter  had  looked  from  one  brother  to  the  other  with  pain  and 
amazement — page  503. 

Paul  also  asked  him,  as  a practical  man.  what  he  thought  about 
King  Alfred’s  idea  of  measuring  time  by  the  burning  of 
candles — page  519. 

800456  <3> 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities 


IN  THREE  BOOKS 


BOOK  THE  FIRST 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE 


PREFACE. 

When  I was  acting,  with  my  children  and  friends,  in 
Mr.  Wilkie  Collins’s  drama  of  the  Frozen  Deep,  I first 
conceived  the  main  idea  of  this  story.  A strong  desire 
was  upon  me  then,  to  embody  it  in  my  own  person  ; and 
I traced  out  in  my  fancy,  the  state  of  mind  of  which  it 
would  necessitate  the  presentation  to  an  observant  spec- 
tator, with  particular  care  and  interest. 

As  the  idea  became  familiar  to  me,  it  gradually  shaped 
itself  into  its  present  form.  Throughout  its  execution, 
it  has  had  complete  possession  of  me  ; I have  so  far  veri- 
fied what  is  done  and  suffered  in  these  pages,  as  that  I 
have  certainly  done  and  suffered  it  all  myself. 

Whenever  any  reference  (however  slight)  is  made  here 
to  the  condition  of  the  French  people  before  or  during 
the  Revolution,  it  is  truly  made,  on  the  faith  of  trust- 
worthy witnesses.  It  has  been  one  of  my  hopes  to  add 
something  to  the  popular  and  picturesque  means  of  un- 
derstanding that  terrible  time,  though  no  one  can  hope 
to  add  anything  to  the  philosophy  of  Mr.  Carlyle’s 
wonderful  book. 


6 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

% 

The  Period. 

It  was  the  best  of  times,  it  was  the  worst  of  times,  it 
was  the  age  of  wisdom,  it  was  the  age  of  foolishness,  it 
was  the  epoch  of  belief,  it  was  the  epoch  of  incredulity, 
it  was  the  season  of  Light,  it  was  the  season  of  Dark- 
ness, it  was  the  spring  of  hope,  it  was  the  winter  of 
despair,  we  had  everything  before  us,  we  had  nothing 
before  us,  we  were  all  going  direct  to  Heaven,  we  were 
all  going  direct  the  other  way — in  short,  the  period  was 
so  far  like  the  present  period,  that  some  of  its  noisiest 
authorities  insisted  on  its  being  received,  for  good  or  for 
evil,  in  the  superlative  degree  of  comparison  only. 

There  were' a king  with  a large  jaw,  and  a queen  with 
a plain  face,  on  the  throne  of  England  ; there  were 
a king  with  a large  jaw  and  a queen  with  a fair  face, 
on  the  throne  of  France.  In  both  countries  it  was 
clearer  than  crystal  to  the  lords  of  the  State  preserves 
cf  loaves  and  fishes,  that  things  in  general  were  settled 
for  ever. 

It  was  the  year  of  Our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five.  Spiritual  revelations  were  con- 
ceded to  England  at  that  favoured  period,  as  at  this. 
Mrs . Southcott  had  recently  attained  her  five-and-twen- 
tieth  blessed  birth-day,  of  whom  a prophetic  private 
in  the  Life  Guards  had  heralded  the  sublime  appearance 
by  announcing  that  arrangements  were  made  for  the 
swallowing  up  of  London  and  Westminster.  Even  the 
Cock-lane  ghost  had  been  laid  only  a round  dozen  of 
years,  after  rapping  out  its  messages,  as  the  spirits  of 
this  very  year  last  past  (supematurally  deficient  in 
originality)  rapped  out  theirs.  Mere  messages  in  the 
earthly  order  of  events  had  lately  come  to  the  English 
Crown  and  People,  from  a congress  of  British  subjects 
in  America  : which,  strange  to  relate,  have  proved  more 
important  to  the  human  race  than  any  communications 
yet  received  through  any  of  the  chickens  of  the  Cock- 
lane  brood. 

France,  less  favoured  on  the  whole  as  to  matters 
spiritual  than  her  sister  of  the  shield  and  trident,  rolled 
with  exceeding  smoothness  down  hill,  making  paper 
money  and  spending  it.  Under  the  guidance  of  her 
Christian  pastors,  she  entertained  herself,  besides,  with 
such  humane  achievements  as  sentencing  a youth  to 
have  his  hands  cut  off,  his  tongue  torn  out  with  pincers, 
and  his  body  burned  alive,  because  he  had  not  kneeled 
down  in  the  rain  to  do  honour  to  a dirty  procession  of 
monks  which  passed  within  his  view,  at  a distance  cf 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


7 


some  fifty  or  sixty  yards.  It  is  likely  enough  that, 
rooted  in  the  woods  of  France  and  Norway,  there  were 
growing  trees,  when  that  sufferer  was  put  to  death, 
already  marked  by  the  Woodman,  Fate,  to  come  dowp 
and  be  sawn  into  boards,  to  make  a certain  movable 
framework  with  a sack  and  a knife  in  it,  terrible  ip 
history.  It  is  likely  enough  that  in  the  rough  outhouses 
of  some  tillers  of  the  heavy  lands  adjacent  to  Paris, 
there  were  sheltered  from  the  weather  that  very  day,  rud^ 
carts,  bespattered  with  rustic  mire,  snuffed  about  by  pigs, 
and  roosted  in  by  poultry,  which  the  Farmer,  Death,  had 
already  set  apart  to  be  his  tumbrils  of  the  Revolution. 
But,  that  Woodman  and  that  Farmer,  though  they  work 
unceasingly,  work  silently,  and  no  one  heard  them  as  they 
went  about  with  muffled  tread  : the  rather,  forasmuch 
as  to  entertain  any  suspicion  that  they  were  awake, 
was  to  be  atheistical  and  traitorous. 

In  England,  there  was  scarcely  an  amount  of  order 
and  protection  to  justify  much  national  boasting.  Darx 
ing  burglaries  by  armed  men,  and  highway  robber- 
ies, took  place  in  the  capital  itself  every  night ; families 
were  publicly  cautioned  not  to  go  out  of  town  without 
removing  their  furniture  to  upholsterers’  warehouses 
for  security  ; the  highwayman  in  the  dark  was  a City 
tradesman  in  the  light,  and,  being  recognised  and 
challenged  by  his  fellow- tradesman  whom  he  stopped 
in  his  character  of  “ the  Captain,”  gallantly  shot  him 
through  the  head  and  rode  away  ; the  mail  was  waylaid  by 
seven  robbers,  and  the  guard  shot  three  dead;  and  then 
got  shot  dead  himself  by  the  other  four,  “ in  consequence 
of  the  failure  of  his  ammunition  after  which  the  mail 
was  robbed  in  peace  ; that  magnificent  potentate,  the 
Lord  Mayor  of  London,  was  made  to  stand  and  deliver 
on  Turnliam  Green,  by  one  highwayman,  who  despoiled 
the  illustrious  creature  in  sight  of  all  his  retinue  ; 
prisoners  in  London  gaols  fought  battles  with  their 
turnkeys,  and  the  majesty  of  the  law  fired  blunderbusses 
in  among  them,  loaded  with  rounds  of  shot  and  ball  ; 
thieves  snipped  off  diamond  crosses  from  the  necks  of 
noble  lords  at  Court  drawing-rooms  ; musketeers  went 
into  St.  Giles’s,  to  search  for  contraband  goods,  and  the 
mob  fired  on  the  musketeers,  and  the  musketeers  fired 
on  the  mob,  and  nobody  thought  any  of  these  occurrences 
much  out  of  the  common  way.  In  the  midst  of  them, 
the  hangman,  ever  busy  and  ever  worse  than  useless, 
was  in  constant  requisition  ; now,  stringing  up  long 
rows  of  miscellaneous  criminals  ; now,  hanging  a house- 
breaker on  Saturday  who  had  been  taken  on  Tuesday  ; 
now,  burning  people  in  the  hand  at  Newgate  by  the 
dozen,  and  now  burning  pamphlets  at  the  door  of 
Westminster  Hall ; to-day,  taking  the  life  of  an  atro- 


8 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


cions  murderer,  and  to-morrow  of  a wretched  pilferer 
who  had  robbed  a farmer’s  boy  of  sixpence. 

All  these  things  and  a thousand  like  them,  came  to 
pass  in  and"  close  upon  the  dear  old  year  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five.  Environed  by  them, 
while  the  Woodman  and  the  Farmer  worked  unheeded, 
those  two  of  the  large  jaws,  and  those  other  two  of  the 
plain  and  the  fair  faces,  trod  with  stir  enough,  and 
carried  their  divine  rights  with  a high  hand.  Thus  did 
the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five 
conduct  their  Greatnesses,  and  myriads  of  small  creatures 
—the  creatures  of  this  chronicle- among  the  rest — along 
6h©  roads  that  lay  before  them. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Mail. 

It  was  the  Dover  road  that  lay,  on  a Friday  night  late 
in  November,  before  the  first  of  the  persons  with  whom 
this  history  has  business.  The  Dover  road  lay,  as  to  him, 
beyond  the  Dover  mail,  as  it  lumbered  up  Shooter’s 
Hill.  He  walked  up-hill  in  the  mire  by  the  side  of  the 
mail,  as  the  rest  of  the  passengers  did  ; not  because  they 
had  the  least  relish  for  walking  exercise,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, but  because  the  hill,  and  the  harness,  and 
the  mud,  and  the  mail,  were  all  so  heavy,  that  the 
horses  had  three  times  already  come  to  a stop,  besides 
once  drawing  the  coach  across  the  road,  with  the  mu- 
tinous intent  of  taking  it  back  to  Blackheath.  Reins 
and  whip  and  coachman  and  guard,  however,  in  combi- 
nation, had  read  that  article  of  war  which  forbade  a 
purpose  otherwise  strongly  in  favour  of  the  argument, 
that  some  brute  animals  are  endued  with  Reason  ; and 
the  team  had  capitulated  and  returned  to  their  duty. 

With  drooping  heads  and  tremulous  tails,  they  mashed 
their  way  through  the  thick  mud,  floundering  and 
stumbling  between  whiles  as  if  they  were  failing  to 
pieces  at  the  larger  joints.  As  often  as  the  driver 
rested  them  and  brought  them  to  a stand,  with  a wary 
“ Wo-ho  ! so-ho  then  ! ” the  near  leader  violently  shook  * 
his  head  and  everything  upon  it— like  an  unusually  em- 
phatic horse,  denying  that  the  coach  could  be  got  up  the 
hill.  Whenever  the  leader  made  this  rattle,  the  passen- 
ger started,  as  a nervous  passenger  might,  and  was  dis- 
turbed in  mind. 

There  was  a steaming  mist  in  all  the  hollows,  and  it 
had  roamed  in  its  forlornness  up  the  hill,  like  an  evil 
spirit,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none.  A clammy  and 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


9 


intensely  cold  mist,  it  made  its  slow  way  through  the  aif 
in  ripples  that  visibly  followed  and  overspread  one  an- 
other, as  the  waves  of  an  unwholesome  sea  might  do. 
It  was  dense  enough  to  shut  out  everything  from  the 
light  of  the  coach-lamps  but  these  its  own  workings,  and 
a few  yards  of  road  ; and  the  reek  of  the  labouring 
horses  steamed  into  it,  as  if  they  had  made  it  all. 

Two  other  passengers,  besides  the  one,  were  plodding 
up  the  hill  by  the  side  of  the  mail.  All  three  were 
wrapped  to  the  cheek-bones  and  over  the  ears,  and  wore 
jack-boots.  Not  one  of  the  three  could  have  said,  from 
anything  he  saw,  what  either  of  the  other  two  was 
like  ; and  each  was  hidden  under  almost  as  many  wrap- 
pers from  the  eyes  of  the  mind,  as  from  the  eyes  of  the 
body,  of  his  two  companions.  In  those  days,  travellers 
were  very  shy  of  being  confidential  on  a short  notice,  for 
anybody  on  the  road  might  be  a robber  or  in  league 
with  robbers.  As  to  the  latter,  when  every  posting- 
house  and  ale-house  could  produce  somebody  in  “ the 
Captain’s”  pay,  ranging  from  the  landlord  to  the  low- 
est stable  nondescript,  it  was  the  likeliest  thing  upon 
the  cards.  So  the  guard  of  the  Dover  mail  thought  to 
himself,  that  Friday  night  in  November  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  lumbering  up  Shooter’s 
Hill,  as  he  stood  on  his  own  particular  perch  behind  the 
mail,  beating  his  feet  and  keeping  an  eye  and  a hand  on 
the  arm-chest  before  him,  where  a loaded  blunderbuss 
lay  at  the  top  of  six  or  eight  loaded  horse-pistols,  de- 
posited on  a substratum  of  cutlass. 

The  Dover  mail  was  in  its  usual  genial  position  that 
the  guard  suspected  the  passengers,  the  passengers 
suspected  one  another  and  the  guard,  they  all  sus- 
pected everybody  else,  and  the  coachman  was  sure  of 
nothing  but  the  horses  ; as  to  which  cattle  he  could 
with  a clear  conscience  have  taken  his  oath  on  the  two 
Testaments  that  they  were  not  fit  for  the  journey. 

“Wo-ho!”  said  the  coachman.  “So,  then!  One 
more  pull  and  you’re  at  the  top  and  be  damned  to  you, 
for  I have  had  trouble  enough  to  get  you  to  it !— Joe  ! ” 

“ Halloa  ! ” the  guard  replied. 

“ What  o’clock  do  you  make  it,  Joe  ?” 

“ Ten  minutes,  good,  past  eleven.” 

“ My  blood  ! ” ejaculated  the  vexed  coachman,  “ and 
not  atop  of  Shooter’s  yet?  Tst  ! Yah  ! Get  on  with 
you  ! ” 

The  emphatic  horse,  cut  short  by  the  whip  in  a most 
decided  negative,  made  a decided  scramble  for  it,  and 
the  three  other  horses  followed  suit.  Once  more,  the 
Dover  mail  struggled  on,  with  the  jack-boots  of  its  pas  - 
sengers squashing  along  by  its  side.  They  had  stopped 
when  the  coach  stopped,  and  they  kept  close  company 


10 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


with  it.  If  any  one  of  the  three  had  had  the  hardihood 
to  propose  to  another  to  walk  on  a little  ahead  into  the 
mist  and  darkness,  he  would  have  put  himself  in  a fair 
way  of  getting  shot  instantly  as  a highwayman. 

The  last  burst  carried  the  mail  to  the  summit  of  the 
hill.  The  horses  stopped  to  breathe  again,  and  the  guard 
got  down  to  skid  the  wheel  for  the  descent,  and  open  the 
coach  door  to  let  the  passengers  in. 

“Tst!  Joe ! ” cried  the  coachman  in  a warning 
voice,  looking  down  from  his  box. 

“ What  do  you  say,  Tom?” 

They  both  listened. 

“ I say  a horse  at  a canter  coming  up,  Joe.” 

“/say  a horse  at  a gallop,  Tom,”  returned  the  guard, 
weaving  his  hold  of  the  door,  and  mounting  nimbly  to 
his  place.  ‘ ‘ Gentlemen  ! In  the  king’s  name,  all  of 
you  ! ” 

With  this  hurried  adjuration,  he  cocked  his  blunder- 
buss, and  stood  on  the  offensive. 

The  passenger  booked  by  this  history  was  on  the 
coach  step,  getting  in  ; the  two  other  passengers  were 
close  behind  him,  and  about  to  follow.  He  remained  on 
the  step,  half  in  the  coach,  and  half  out  of  it  ; they  re- 
mained in  the  road  below  him.  They  ail  looked  from 
the  coachman  to  the  guard,  and  from  the  guard  to  the 
coachman,  and  listened.  The  coachman  looked  back, 
and  the  guard  looked  back,  and  even  the  emphatic  leader 
pricked  up  his  ears  and  looked  back,  without  contra- 
dicting. 

The  stillness  consequent  on  the  cessation  of  the  rum- 
bling and  labouring  of  the  coach,  added  to  the  stillness 
of  the  night,  made  it  very  quiet  indeed.  The  panting 
of  the  horses  communicated  a tremulous  motion  to  the 
coach,  as  if  it  were  in  a state  of  agitation.^ The  hearts 
of  the  passengers  beat  loud  enough  perhaps  to  be  heard ; 
but  at  any  rate,  the  quiet  pause  was  audibly  expressive 
of  people  out  of  breath,  and  holding  the  breath,  and 
having  the  pulses  quickened  by  expectation. 

The  sound  of  a horse  at  a gallop  came  fast  and  furi- 
ously up  the  hill. 

“ So-ho  ! ” the  guard  sang  out,  as  loud  as  he  could 
roar.  “ Yo  there  ! Stand  ! I shall  fire  ! ” 

The  pace  was  suddenly  checked,  and,  with  much 
splashing  and  floundering,  a man’s  voice  called  from  the 
mist,  “ Is  that  the  Dover  mail  ?” 

“Never  you  mind  what  it  is!”  the  guard  retorted. 
r*  What  are  you  ? ” 

“Is  that  the  Dover  mail  ? ” 

“Why  do  you  want  to  know?” 

“I  want  a passenger,  if  it  is.” 

“ What  passenger  ? ” 


A TALE  OP  TWO  ClTiES. 


11 


ff<Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry.  ” 

Our  booked  passenger  showed  in  a moment  that  it 
was  his  name.  The  guard,  the  coachman,  and  the  two 
other  passengers,  eyed  him  distrustfully. 

“ Keep  where  you  are,”  the  guard  called  to  the  voice 
in  the  mist,  “ because,  if  I should  make  a mistake,  it 
could  never  be  set  right  in  your  lifetime.  Gentleman  of 
the  name  of  Lorry  answer  straight.” 

“ What  is  the  matter?”  asked  the  passenger,  then, 
with  mildly  quavering  speech.  “ Who  wants  me.  Is  it 
Jerry  ? ” 

(“  I don’t  like  Jerry’s  voice,  if  it  is  Jerry,”  growled 
the  guard  to  himself.  “ He’s  hoarser  than  suits  me,  is 
Jerry.” 

“ Yes,  Mr.  Lorry.” 

" What  is  the  matter? ” 

“ A despatch  sent  after  you  from  over  yonder.  T.  and 
Co.” 

“ 1 know  this  messenger,  Guard,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  get- 
ting down  into  the  road — assisted  from  behind  morq 
swiftly  than  politely  by  the  other  two  passengers,  who 
immediately  scrambled  into  the  coach,  shut  the  door,  and 
pulled  up  the  window.  “ He  may  come  close  ; there’ § 
nothing  wrong.” 

“ I hope  there  ain’t,  but  I can’t  make  so  ’Nation  sure  of 
that,’*  said  the  guard,  in  gruff  soliloquy.  “ Halloa  you  ! ” 
- “ Well ! And  halloa  you  ! ” said  Jerry,  more  hoarsely 
'than  before. 

“ Come  on  at  a footpace  ; d’ye  mind  me  ? And  if  you’ve 
got  holsters  to  that  saddle  o’  yourn,  don’t  let  me  see 
your  hand  go  nigh  ’em.  For  I’m  a Devil  at  a quick  mis- 
take, and  when  I make  one  it  takes  the  form  of  Lead. 
So  now  let’s  look  at  you.” 

The  figures  of  a horse  and  rider  came  slowly  through 
the  eddying  mist,  and  came  to  the  side  of  the  mail, 
ipjiere  the  passenger  stood.  The  rider  stooped,  and  cast- 
ing up  his  eyes  at  the  guard,  handed  the  passenger  a 
small  folded  paper.  The  rider’s  horse  was  blown,  and 
both  horse  and  rider  were  covered  with  mud,  from  the 
hoofs  of  the  horse  to  the  hat  of  the  man. 

“ Guard  !”  said  the  passenger,  in  atone  of  quiet  busk 
ness  confidence. 

The  watchful  guard,  with  his  right  hand  at  the  stock 
of  his  raised  blunderbuss,  his  left  at  the  barrel,  and 
his  eye  on  the  horseman,  answered  curtly,  “ Sir.” 

“ There  is  nothing  to  apprehend.  I belong  to  Telh 
son’s  Bank.  You  must  know  Tellson’s  Bank  in  London. 
I am  going  to  Paris  on  business.  A crown  to  drink.  I 
may  read  this  ? ” 

“If  so  be  as  you’re  quick,  sir.” 


n 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  opened  it  in  the  light  of  the  coach-lamp  on  that 
side,  and  read — first  to  himself  and  then  aloud » 

“ ‘Wait  at  Dover  for  Mam’selle.’  It's  not  long,  you  see, 
guard.  Jerry,  say  that  my  answer  was,  recalled  t q 
LIFE.  ” 

Jerry  started  in  his  saddle.  “ That’s  a Blazing  strange 
answer,  too,”  said  he,  at  his  hoarsest. 

“ Take  that  message  back,  and  they  will  know  that  I 
received  this,  as  well  as  if  I wrote.  Make  the  best  oi 
your  way.  Good  night.” 

With  those  words  the  passenger  opened  the  coach- 
door  and  got  in  ; not  at  all  assisted  by  his  fellow  passen. 
gers,  who  had  expeditiously  secreted  their  watches  and 
purses  in  their  boots,  and  were  now  making  a general 
pretence  of  being  asleep.  With  no  more  definite  pur- 
pose than  to  escape  the  hazard  of  originating  any  other 
kind  of  action. 

The  coach  lumbered  on  again,  with  heavier  wreaths  of 
mist  closing  round  it  as  it  began  the  descent.  The  guarc} 
soon  replaced  his  blunderbuss  in  his  arm-chest,  and,  hav- 
ing looked  to  the  rest  of  its  contents,  and  having  looked 
to  the  supplementary  pistols  that  he  wore  in  his  belt, 
looked  to  a smaller  chest  beneath  his  seat,  in  which  there 
were  a few  smith’s  tools,a  couple  of  torches,  and  a tinder- 
box.  For  he  was  furnished  with  that  completeness, that  if 
the  coach  lamps  had  been  blown  and  stormed  out,  which 
did  occasionally  happen,  he  had  only  to  shut  himself  up 
inside,  keep  the  flint  and  steel  sparks  well  off  the  straw, 
and  get  a light  with  tolerable  safety  and  ease  (if  he  wer^ 
lucky)  in  five  minutes. 

“ Tom  ! ” softly  over  the  coach-roof. 

“ Hallo,  Joe.” 

“ Did  you  hear  the  message  ? ” 

" I did,  Joe.” 

“ What  did  you  make  of  it,  Tom  ? ” 

“ Nothing  at  all,  Joe.” 

“ That’s  a coincidence,  too,”  the  guard  mused,  “forT 
made  the  same  of  it  myself.” 

Jerry,  left  alone  in  the  mist  and  darkness,  dismounted 
meanwhile,  not  only  to  ease  his  spent  horse,  but  to  wipe 
the  mud  from  his  face,  and  to  shake  the  wet  out  of  his 
hat-brim,  which  might  be  capable  of  holding  about  half 
a gallon.  After  standing  with  the  bridle  over  his  heavily  - 
spl ashed  arm,  until  the  wheels  of  the  mail  were  no 
longer  within  hearing  and  the  night  was  quite  still 
again,  he  turned  to  walk  down  the  hill. 

“ After  that  there  gallop  from  Temple -bar,  old  lady, 
I won’t  trust  your  fore-legs  till  I get  you  on  the  level,” 
said  this  hoarse  messenger,  glancing  at  his  mare.  “ ‘ Re^ 
called  to  life.’  That’s  a Blazing  strange  message.  Much 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


13 


of  that  wouldn’t  do  for  you,  Jerry  ! I say,  Jerry  1 You’d 
be  in  a Blazing  bad  way,  if  recalling  to  life  was  to  come 
into  fashion,  Jerry  ! ” 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Night  Shadows. 

A wonderful  fact  to  reflect  upon,  that  every  human 
creature  is  constituted  to  be  that  profound  secret  and 
mystery  to  every  other.  A solemn  consideration,  when  I 
enter  a great  city  by  night,  that  every  one  of  those  dark- 
ly clustered  houses  encloses  its  own  secret ; that  every 
room  in  every  one  of  them  encloses  its  own  secret ; that 
every  beating  heart  in  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
breasts  there,  is,  in  some  of  its  imaginings,  a secret  to 
the  heart  nearest  it ! Something  of  the  awfulness,  even 
of  Death  itself,  is  referable  to  this.  No  more  can  I turn 
the  leaves  of  this  dear  book  that.  I loved,  and  vainly  hope 
in  time  to  read  it  all.  No  more  can  I look  into  the  depths 
of  this  unfathomable  water,  wherein,  as  momentary  lights 
glanced  into  it,  I have  had  glimpses  of  buried  treasure 
and  other  things  submerged.  It  was  appointed  that  the 
book  should  shut  with  a spring,  for  ever  and  for  ever, 
when  I had  read  but  a page.  It  was  appointed  that  the 
water  should  be  locked  in  an  eternal  frost,  when  the  light 
was  playing  on  its  surface,  and  I stood  in  ignorance  on  the 
shore.  My  friend  is  dead,  my  neighbour  is  dead,  my  love, 
the  darling  of  my  soul,  is  dead  ; it  is  the  inexorable  con- 
solidation and  perpetuation  of  the  secret  that  was  al- 
ways in  that  individuality,  and  which  I shall  carry  in 
mine  to  my  life’s  end.  In  any  of  the  burial-places  in 
this  city  through  which  I pass,  is  there  a sleeper  more 
inscrutable  than  its  busy  inhabitants  are,  in  their  inner- 
most personality,  to  me,  or  than  I am  to  them  ? 

As  to  this,  his  natural  and  not  to  be  alienated  inherit- 
ance, the  messenger  on  horseback  had  exactly  the  same 
possessions  as  the  King,  the  first  Minister  of  State,  or  the 
richest  merchant  in  London.  So  with  the  three  passen- 
gers shut  up  in  the  narrow  compass  of  one  lumbering  old 
mail  coach  ; they  were  mysteries  to  one  another,  as  com- 
plete as  if  each  had  been  in  his  own  coach  and  six,  or  his 
own  coach  and  sixty,  with  the  breadth  of  a county  be- 
tween him  and  the  next. 

The  messenger  rode  back  at  an  easy  trot,  stopping  pret- 
ty often  at  ale-houses  by  the  way  to  drink,  but  evincing 
a tendency  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  and  to  keep  his  hat 
cocked  over  his  eyes.  He  had  eyes  that  assorted  very 
well  with  that  decoration,  being  of  a surface  black,  with 
no  depth  in  the  colour  or  form,  and  much  too  near  to- 


14 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


gether — as  if  they  were  afraid  of  being  found  out  in 
something,  singly,  if  they  kept  too  far  apart.  They  had 
a sinister  expression,  under  an  old  cocked-liat  like  a three- 
cornered  spittoon,  and  over  a great  muffler  for  the  chin 
and  throat,  which  descended  nearly  to  the  wearer’s  knees. 
When  he  stopped  for  drink,  he  moved  this  muffler  with 
his  left  hand,  only  while  he  poured  his  liquor  in  with  his 
right ; as  soon  as  that  was  done,  he  muffled  again. 

“ No,  Jerry,  no  !”  said  the  messenger,  harping  on  one 
theme  as  he  rode.  “ It  wouldn’t  do  for  you,  Jerry.  Jer- 
ry, you  honest  tradesman,  it  wouldn’t  suit  your  line  of 
business  ! Recalled — ! Bust  me  if  I don’t  think  he’d 
been  a drinking  ! ” 

His  message  perplexed  his  mind  to  that  degree  that  he 
was  fain,  several  times,  to  take  off  his  hat  to  scratch  his 
head.  Except  on  the  crown,  which  was  raggedly  bald, 
he  had  stiff,  black  hair,  standing  jaggedly  all  over  it,  and 
growing  downhill  almost  to  his  broad,  blunt  nose.  It 
was  so  like  smith’s  work,  so  much  more  like  the  top  of  a 
strongly  spiked  wall  than  a head  of  hair,  that  the  best  of 
players  at  leap-frog  might  have  declined  him,  as  the  most 
dangerous  man  in  the  world  to  go  over. 

While  he  trotted  back  with  the  message  he  was  to  de- 
liver to  the  night  watchman  in  his  box  at  the  door  of 
Tellson’s  Bank,  by  Temple-bar,  who  was  to  deliver  it  to 
greater  authorities  within,  the  shadows  of  the  night  took 
such  shapes  to  him  as  arose  out  of  the  message,  and  took 
such  shapes  to  the  mare  as  arose  out  of  her  private  topics 
of  uneasiness.  They  seemed  to  be  numerous,  for  she 
shied  at  every  shadow  on  the  road. 

What  time,  the  mail-coach  lumbered,  jolted,  rattled, 
and  bumped  upon  its  tedious  way,  with  its  three  fellow 
inscrutables  inside.  To  whom,  likewise,  the  shadows  of 
the  night  revealed  themselves,  in  the  forms  their  dozing 
eyes  and  wandering  thoughts  suggested. 

Tellson’s  Bank  had  a run  upon  it  in  the  mail.  As  the 
bank  passenger — with  an  arm  drawn  through  the  leath- 
ern strap,  which  did  what  lay  in  it  to  keep  him  from 
pounding  against  the  next  passenger,  and  driving  him  in- 
to his  corner,  whenever  the  coach  got  a special  jolt- 
nodded  in  his  place  with  half-shut  eyes,  the  little  coach- 
windows,  and  the  coach-lamp  dimly  gleaming  through 
them,  and  the  bulky  bundle  of  opposite  passenger,  be- 
came the  bank,  and  did  a great  stroke  of  business.  The 
rattle  of  the  harness  was  the  chink  of  money,  and  more 
drafts  were  honoured  in  five  minutes  than  even  Tellson’s, 
with  all  its  foreign  and  home  connexion,  ever  paid  in 
thrice  the  time.  Then  the  strong-rooms  underground,  at 
Tellson’s,  with  such  of  their  valuable  stores  and  secrets 
as  were  known  to  the  passenger  (and  it  was  not  a little 
that  he  knew  about  them),  opened  before  him,  and  he 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


15 


went  in  among  them  with  the  great  keys  and  the  feebly- 
burning  candle,  and  found  them  safe,  and  strong,  and 
sound,  and  still,  just  as  be  bad  last  seen  them. 

But.,  though  the  bank  was  almost  always  with  him, 
and  though  the  coach  (in  a confused  way,  like  the  pres- 
ence of  pain  under  an  opiate)  was  always  with  him, 
there  was  another  current  of  impression  that  never 
ceased  to  run,  all  through  the  night.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  dig  some  one  out  of  a grave. 

Now,  which  of  the  multitude  of  faces  that  showed 
themselves  before  him  was  the  true  face  of  the  buried 
person,  the  shadows  of  the  night  did  not  indicate  ; but 
they  were  all  the  faces  of  a man  of  five-and-forty  by 
years,  and  they  differed  principally  in  the  passions  they 
expressed,  and  in  the  ghastliness  of  their  worn  and 
wasted  state.  Pride,  contempt,  defiance,  stubbornness, 
submission,  lamentation,  succeeded  one  another  ; so  did 
varieties  of  sunken  cheek,  cadaverous  colour,  emaciated 
hands  and  fingers.  But  the  face  was  in  the  main  one 
face,  and  every  head  was  prematurely  white.  A hun- 
dred times  the  dozing  passenger  inquired  of  this  spectre  : 

Buried  how  long?” 

The  answer  was  always  the  same  : “ Almost  eighteen 
years. 99 

“ You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out?  99 

“ Long  ago.” 

“ You  know  that  you  are  recalled  to  life  ? ” 

“ They  tell  me  so.” 

**  I hope  you  care  to  live  ? ” 

“ I can’t  say.” 

“ Shall  I show  her  to  you  ? Will  you  come  and  see 
her  ? ” 

The  answers  to  this  question  were  various  and  con- 
tradictory. Sometimes  the  broken  reply  was,  “ Wait ! 
It  would  kill  me  if  I saw  her  too  soon.”  Sometimes,  it 
was  given  in  a tender  rain  of  tears,  and  then  it  was, 
" Take  me  to  her.”  Sometimes,  it  was  staring  and  be- 
wildered, and  then  it  was,  “I  don’t  know  her.  I don’t 
Understand.” 

After  such  imaginary  discourse,  the  passenger  in  his 
fancy  would  dig,  and  dig,  dig— now,  with  a spade,  now 
with  a great  key,  now  with  his  hands — to  dig  this 
wretched  creature  out.  Got  out  at  last,  with  earth 
hanging  about  his  face  and  hair,  he  would  suddenly 
fall  away  to  dust.  The  passenger  would  then  start  to 
himself,  and  lower  the  window,  to  get  the  reality  of 
mist  and  rain  on  his  cheek. 

Yet  even  when  his  eyes  were  opened  on  the  mist  and 
rain,  on  the  moving  patch  of  light  from  the  lamps,  and 
the  hedge  at  the  roadside  retreating  by  jerks,  the  night 
shadows  outside  the  coach  would  fall  into  the  train  of  the 


16 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


night  shadows  within.  The  real  Banking-house  by  Tem- 
ple-bar, the  real  business  of  the  past  day,  the  real  strong- 
rooms, the  real  express  sent  after  him,  and  the  real  mes- 
sage returned,  would  all  be  there.  Out  of  the  midst  of 
them,  the  ghostly  face  would  rise,  and  he  would  accost 
it  again. 

“ Buried  how  long  ? ” 

“ Almost  eighteen  years.” 

“ I hope  you  care  to  live  ? ” 

“ I can't  say.” 

Dig — dig— dig — until  an  impatient  movement  from 
one  of  the  two  passengers  would  admonish  him  to  pull 
up  the  window,  draw  his  arm  securely  through  the 
leathern  strap,  and  speculate  upon  the  two  slumbering 
forms,  until  his  mind  lost  its  hold  of  them,  and  they 
again  slid  away  into  the  bank  and  the  grave. 

“ Buried  how  long  ? ” 

“Almost  eighteen  years.” 

“ You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out  ?” 

“Long  ago.” 

The  words  were  still  in  his  hearing  as  just  spoken — 
distinctly  in  his  hearing  as  ever  spoken  words  had  been 
in  his  life — when  the  weary  passenger  started  to  the 
consciousness  of  daylight,  and  found  that  the  shadows 
of  the  night  were  gone. 

He  lowered  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  rising 
sun.  There  was  a ridge  of  ploughed  land,  with  a plough 
upon  it  where  it  had  been  left  last  night  when  the  horses 
were  unyoked  ; beyond,  a quiet  coppice-wood,  in  which 
many  leaves  of  burning  red  and  golden  yellow  still  re- 
mained upon  the  trees.  Though  the  earth  was  cold  and 
wet,  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  sun  rose  bright,  placid, 
and  beautiful. 

“ Eighteen  years  ! ” said  the  passenger,  looking  at  the 
sun.  “ Gracious  Creator  of  Day!  To  be  buried  alive 
for  eighteen  years  ! ” 


CHAPTER  IY. 

The  Preparation. 

When  the  mail  got  successfully  to  Dover,  in  the 
course  of  the  forenoon,  the  head-drawer  at  the  Royal 
George  Hotel  opened  the  coach-door  as  his  custom  was. 
He  did  it  with  some  flourish  of  ceremony,  for  a mail 
journey  from  London  in  winter  was  an  achievement  to 
congratulate  an  adventurous  traveller  upon. 

By  that  time,  there  was  only  one  adventurous  traveller 
left  to  be  congratulated  ; for  the  two  others  had  been 
set  down  at  their  respective  roadside  destinations.  The 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


17 


mildewy  inside  of  the  coach,  with  its  damp  and  dirty 
straw,  its  disagreeable  smell,  and  its  obscurity,  was 
rather  like  a larger  dog-kennel.  Mr.  Lorry,  the  passen- 
ger, shaking  himself  out  of  it  in  chains  of  straw,  a tangle 
of  shaggy  wrapper,  flapping  hat,  and  muddy  legs,  was 
rather  like  a larger  sort  of  dog. 

“ There  will  be  a packet  to  Calais  to-morrow,  drawer?” 

“ Yes,  sir,  if  the  weather  holds  and  the  wind  sets 
tolerable  fair.  The  tide  will  serve  pretty  nicely  at  about 
two  in  the  afternoon,  sir.  Bed,  sir  ? ” 

“ I shall  not  go  to  bed  till  night  ; but  I want  a bed- 
room and  a barber. 

And  then  breakfast,  sir  ? Yes,  sir.  That  way,  sir, 
if  you  please.  Show  Concord  ! Gentleman's  valise  and 
hot  water  to  Concord.  Pull  off  gentleman's  boots  in 
Concord.  (You  will  find  a fine  sea-coal  fire,  sir.)  Fetch 
barber  to  Concord.  Stir  about  there  now,  for  Concord  ! ” 

The  Concord  bed-chamber  being  always  assigned  to  & 
passenger  by  the  mail,  and  passengers  by  the  mail  being 
always  heavily  wrapped  up  from  head  to  foot,  the  room 
had  the  odd  interest  for  the  establishment  of  the  Royal 
George,  that  although  but  one  kind  of  man  was  seen  to 
go  into  it,  all  kinds  and  varieties  of  men  came  out  of  it. 
Consequently,  another  drawer,  and  two  porters,  and 
several  maids,  and  the  landlady,  were  all  loitering  by 
accident  at  various  points  of  the  road  between  the  Cqn- 
cord  and  the  coffee-room,  when  a gentleman  of  sixty, 
formally  dressed  in  a brown  suit  of  clothes,  pretty  well 
worn,  but  very  well  kept,  with  large  square  cuffs  and 
large  flaps  to  the  pockets,  passed  along  on  his  way  to 
his  breakfast. 

The  coffee-room  had  no  other  occupant,  that  forenoon, 
than  the  gentleman  in  brown.  His  breakfast-table  was 
drawn  before  the  fire,  and  as  he  sat,  with  its  light  shining 
on  him,  waiting  for  his  meal,  he  sat  so  still,  that  ho 
might  have  been  sitting  for  his  portrait. 

Very  orderly  and  methodical  he  looked,  with  a hand 
pn  each  knee,  and  a loud  watch  ticking  a sonorous  ser* 
man  under  his  flapped  waistcoat,  as  though  it  pitted  its 
gravity  and  longevity  against  the  levity  and  evanescence 
of  the  brisk  fire.  He  had  a good  leg,  and  was  a little 
vain  of  it,  for  his  brown  stockings  fitted  sleek  and  close, 
and  were  $f  a fine  texture  ; his  shoes  and  buckles,  too, 
though  plain,  were  trim.  He  wore  an  odd  little  sleek 
crisp  flaxen  wig,  setting  very  close  to  his  head  ; which 
wig,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  was  made  of  hair,  but  which 
looked  far  more  as  though  it  were  spun  from  filaments 
of  silk  or  glass.  His  linen,  though  not  of  a fineness  in 
accordance  with  his  stockings,  was  as  white  as  the  tops 
of  the  waves  that  broke  upon  the  neighbouring  beach. 
Or  the  specks  of  sail  that  glinted  in  the  sunlight  far  at 


18 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sea.  A face  habitually  suppressed  and  quieted,  was  still 
lighted  up  under  the  quaint  wig  by  a pair  of  moist  bright 
eyes  that  it  must  have  cost  their  owner,  in  years  gone 
by,  some  pains  to  drill  to  the  composed  and  reserved  ex- 
pression of  Tellson’s  Bank.  He  had  a healthy  colour  in 
his  cheeks,  and  his  face,  though  lined,  bore  few  traces 
of  anxiety.  But,  perhaps  the  confidential  bachelor  clerks 
in  Tellson’s  Bank  were  principally  occupied  with  the 
cares  of  other  people  ; and  perhaps  second-hand  cares, 
like  second-hand  clothes,  come  easily  off  and  on. 

Completing  his  resemblance  to  a man  who  was  sitting 
for  his  portrait,  Mr.  Lorry  dropped  off  asleep.  The 
arrival  of  his  breakfast  roused  him,  and  he  said  to  the 
drawer,  as  he  moved  his  chair  to  it : 

“ I wish  accommodation  prepared  for  a young  lady 
who  may  come  here  at  any  time  to-day.  She  may  ask 
for  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  or  she  may  only  ask  for  a gentleman 
from  Tellson’s  Bank.  Please  to  let  me  know.  ” 

“ Yes,  sir.  Tellson’s  Bank  in  London,  sir  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes,  sir.  We  have  oftentimes  the  honour  to  enter- 
tain your  gentlemen  in  their  travelling  backwards  and 
forwards  betwixt  London  and  Paris,  sir.  A vast  deal  of 
travelling,  sir,  in  Tellson  and  Company’s  House.  ” 

“Yes.  We  are  quite  a French  house,  as  well  as  an 
English  one.” 

“Yes,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of  such  travel- 
ling yourself,  I think,  sir  ? ” 

“ Not  of  late  years.  It  is  fifteen  years  since  we — since 
I — came  last  from  France.” 

“Indeed,  sir?  That  was  before  my  time  here,  sir. 
Before  our  people’s  time  here,  sir.  The  George  was  in 
other  hands  at  that  time,  sir.” 

“ I believe  so.” 

“But  I would  hold  a pretty  wager,  sir,  that  a House 
like  Tellson  and  Company  was  flourishing,  a matter  of 
fifty,  not  to  speak  of  fifteen  years  ago  ? ” 

“ You  might  treble  that,  and  say  a hundred  and  fifty, 
yet  not  be  far  from  the  truth.  ” 

“ Indeed,  sir  ! ” 

Bounding  his  mouth  and  both  his  eyes,  as  he  stepped 
backward  from  the  table,  the  waiter  shifted  his  napkin 
from  his  right  arm  to  his  left,  dropped  into  a^omforta- 
ble  attitude,  and  stood  surveying  the  guest  while  he  ate 
and  drank,  as  from  an  observatory  or  watch-tower.  Ac- 
cording to  the  immemorial  usage  of  waiters  in  all  ages. 

When  Mr.  Lorry  had  finished  his  breakfast,  he  went 
out  for  a stroll  on  the  beach.  The  little  narrow,  crooked 
town  of  Dover  hid  itself  away  from  the  beach,  and  ran 
its  head  into  the  chalk  cliffs,  like  a marine  ostrich.  The 
beach  was  a desert  of  heaps  of  sea  and  stones  tumbling 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


19 


wildly  about,  and  tbe  sea  did  what  it  liked,  and  what  it 
liked  was  destruction.  It  thundered  at  the  town,  and 
thundered  at  the  cliffs,  and  brought  the  coast  down, 
madly.  The  air  among  the  houses  was  of  so  strong  a 
piscatory  flavour  that  one  might  have  supposed  sick  fish 
went  up  to  be  dipped  in  it,  as  sick  people  went  down  to 
be  dipped  in  the  sea.  A little  fishing  was  done  in  the 
port,  and  a quantity  of  strolling  about  by  night,  and  look- 
ing seaward  ; particularly  at  those  times  when  the  tide 
made,  and  was  near  flood.  Small  tradesmen,  who  did 
no  business  whatever,  sometimes  unaccountably  realized 
large  fortunes,  and  it  was  remarkable  that  nobody  in  the 
neighbourhood  could  endure  a lamplighter. 

As  the  day  declined  into  the  afternoon,  and  the  air, 
which  had  been  at  intervals  clear  enough  to  allow  the 
French  coast  to  be  seen,  became  again  charged  with  mist 
and  vapour,  Mr.  Lorry's  thoughts  seemed  to  cloud  too. 
When  it  was  dark,  and  he  sat  before  the  coffee-room 
fire,  awaiting  his  dinner  as  he  had  awaited  his  break- 
fast, his  mind  was  busily  digging,  digging,  digging,  in 
the  live  red  coals. 

A bottle  of  good  claret  after  dinner  does  a digger  ip 
the  red  coals  no  harm,  otherwise  than  as  it  has  a ten- 
dency to  throw  him  out  of  work.  Mr.  Lorry  had  beep 
idle  a long  time,  and  had  just  poured  out  his  last  glassfu} 
of  wine  with  as  complete  an  appearance  of  satisfaction 
as  is  ever  to  be  found  in  an  elderly  gentleman  of  a fresl* 
complexion  who  has  got  to  the  end  of  a bottle,  when  a 
rattling  of  wheels  came  up  the  narrow  street,  and  rum, 
bled  into  the  inn-yard. 

He  set  down  his  glass  untouched.  4 "This  is  inam\ 
selle  ! ” said  he. 

In  a very  few  minutes  the  waiter  came  in,  to  announce 
that  Miss  Manet te  had  arrived  from  London,  and  would 
be  happy  to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson’s. 

“ So  soon  ?” 

Miss  Manette  had  taken  some  refreshment  on  the 
road,  and  required  none  then,  and  was  extremely  anxious 
to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson’s  immediately,  if  it 
suited  his  pleasure  and  convenience. 

The  gentleman  from  Tellson’s  had  nothing  left  for  it 
but  to  empty  his  glass  with  an  air  of  stolid  desperation, 
settle  his  odd  little  flaxen  wig  at  the  ears,  and  follow  the 
waiter  to  Miss  Manette’s  apartment.  It  was  a large, 
dark  room,  furnished  in  a funereal  manner  with  black 
horsehair,  and  loaded  with  heavy  dark  tables.  These 
had  been  oiled  and  oiled,  until  the  two  tall  candles  on 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  were  gloomily  re- 
flected on  every  leaf  ; as  if  they  were  buried,  in  deep 
graves  of  black  mahogany,  and  no  light  to  speak  of 
could  be  expected  from  them  until  they  were  dug  out. 


20 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  obscurity  was  so  difficult  to  penetrate  that  Mr. 
Lorry  picking  his  way  over  the  well-worn  Turkey  car* 
pet,  supposed  Miss  Manette  to  be,  for  the  moment,  in  some 
adjacent  room,  until,  having  got  past  the  two  tall  can- 
dles, he  saw  standing  to  receive  him  by  the  table  be- 
tween them  and  the  fire,  a young  lady  of  not  more  than 
seventeen,  in  a riding- cloak,  and  still  holding  her  straw 
travelling-hat  by  its  ribbon  in  her  hand.  As  his  eyes 
rested  on  a short,  slight,  pretty  figure,  a quantity  of 
golden  hair,  a pair  of  blue  eyes  that  met  his  own  with 
an  inquiring  look,  and  a forehead  with  a singular  capac- 
ity (remembering  how  young  and  smooth  it  was),  of 
lifting  and  knitting  itself  into  an  expression  that  was  not 
quite  one  of  perplexity,  or  wonder,  or  alarm,  or  merely 
of  a bright  fixed  attention,  though  it  included  all  the 
four  expressions — as  his  eyes  rested  on  these  things, 
a sudden  vivid  likeness  passed  before  him,  of  a child 
whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms  on  the  passage  across  that 
very  Channel,  one  cold  time,  when  the  hail  drifted  heav- 
ily and  the  sea  ran  high.  The  likeness  passed  away, 
say,  like  a breath  along  the  surface  of  a gaunt  pier  glass 
behind  her,  on  the  frame  of  which,  a hospital  procession 
of  negro  cupids,  several  headless  and  all  cripples,  were 
offering  black  baskets  of  Dead  Sea  fruit  to  black  divini- 
ties of  the  feminine  gender — and  he  made  his  formal 
bow  to  Miss  Manette. 

“ Pray  take  a seat,  sir.”  In  a very  clear  and  pleasant 
young  voice  : a little  foreign  in  its  accent,  but  a very 
little  indeed. 

“1  kiss  your  hand,  miss,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  the 
manners  of  an  earlier  date,  as  he  made  his  formal  bow 
i*gain,  and  took  his  seat. 

“ I received  a letter  from  the  Bank,  sir,  yesterday, 
informing  me  that  some  intelligence — or  discovery — ” 

“ The  word  is  not  material,  miss  ; either  word  will  do.  ” 
“ — respecting  the  small  property  of  my  poor  father 
whom  I never  saw — -so  long  dead — ” 

Mr.  Lorry  moved  in  his  chair,  and  cast  a troubled  look 
towards  the  hospital  procession  of  negro  cupids.  As  if 
they  had  any  help  for  anybody  in  their  absurd  baskets  ! 

“ — rendered  it  necessary  that  I should  go  to  Paris, 
there  to  communicate  with  a gentleman  of  the  Bank,  so 
good  as  to  be  despatched  to  Paris  for  the  purpose.  ” 

“ Myself.  ” 

“ As  I was  prepared  to  hear,  sir.” 

She  curtseyed  to  him  (young  ladies  made  curtseys  in 
these  days),  with  a pretty  desire  to  convey  to  him  that 
she  felt  how  much  older  and  wiser  he  was  than  she.  He 
made  her  another  bow. 

I replied  to  the  Bank,  sir,  that  as  it  was  considered 
necessary,  by  those  who  know,  and  who  are  so  kind  as  to 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


21 


advise  me,  that  I should  go  to  France,  and  that  as  I am 
an  orphan  and  have  no  friend  who  could  go  with  me,  I 
should  esteem  it  highly  if  I might  be  permitted  to  place 
myself  during  the  -journey,  under  that  worthy  gentle- 
man's protection.  The  gentleman  had  left  London,  but 
I think  a messenger  was  sent  after  him  to  beg  the  favour 
of  his  waiting  for  me  here.  " 

“ I was  happy/' said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ to  be  entrusted  with 
the  charge.  I shall  be  more  happy  to  execute  it." 

“ Sir,  I thank  you  indeed.  I thank  you  very  grate- 
fully. It  was  told  me  by  the  Bank  that  the  gentleman 
would  explain  to  me  the  details  of  the  business,  and 
that  I must  prepare  myself  to  find  them  of  a surprising 
nature.  I have  done  my  best  to  prepare  myself,  and  I 
naturally  have  a strong  and  eager  interest  to  know  what 
they  are." 

“ Naturally,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Yes — I — " 

After  a pause,  he  added,  again  settling  the  crisp  flaxen 
wig  at  the  ears  : 

“ It  is  very  difficult  to  begin.” 

He  did  not  begin,  but,  in  his  indecision,  met  her 
glance.  The  young  forehead  lifted  itself  into  that  sin- 
gular expression — but  it  was  pretty  and  characteristic, 
besides  being  singular — and  she  raised  her  hand,  as  if 
with  an  involuntary  action  she  caught  at,  or  stayed,  some 
passing  shadow. 

“ Are  you  quite  a stranger  to  me,  sir  ? " 

“ Am  I not  ? " Mr.  Lorry  opened  his  hands,  and  ex- 
tended them  outward  with  an  argumentative  smile. 

Between  the  eyebrows  and  just  over  the  little  feminine 
nose,  the  line  of  which  was  as  delicate  and  fine  as  it  was 

Possible  to  be,  the  expression  deepened  itself  as  she  took 
er  seat  thoughtfully  in  the  chair  by  which  she  had 
hitherto  remained  standing.  He  watched  her  as  she 
mused,  and  the  moment  she  raised  her  eyes  again,  went 
on  : 

^In  your  adopted  country,  I presume,  I cannot  do  bet- 
ter than  address  you  as  a young  English  lady.  Miss 
Manette  ? " 

c‘  If  you  please,  sir." 

“ Miss  Manette,  I am  a man  of  business.  I have  a 
business  charge  to  acquit  myself  of.  In  your  reception 
of  it,  don't  heed  me  any  more  than  if  I was  a speaking 
machine — truly,  I am  not  much  else.  I -will,  with  your 
leave,  relate  to  you,  miss,  the  story  of  one  of  our  custo- 
mers." 

“ Story  ! " 

He  seemed  wilfully  to  mistake  the  word  she  had  re- 
peated, when  he  added,  in  a hurry,  “ Yes,  customers  ; 
in  the  banking  business  we  usually  call  our  connexion 
our  customers.  He  was  a French  gentleman  ; a scien- 


22 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tific  gentleman  ; a man  of  great  acquirements— a doc- 
tor.” 

“ Not  of  Beauvais  ? ” 

“ Why  yes,  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur  Manette, 
your  father,  the  gentleman  was  of  Beauvais.  Like 
Monsieur  Manette,  your  father,  the  gentleman , was  of 
repute  in  Paris.  1 had  the  honour  of  knowing  him  there. 
Our  relations  were  business  relations,  but  confidential. 
I was  at  that  time  in  our  French  House,  and  had  been— 
oh  ! twenty  years.” 

“ At  that  time — I may  ask,  at  what  time,  sir  ?” 

“ I speak,  miss,  of  twenty  years  ago.  He  married — an 
English  lady — and  I was  one  of  the  trustees.  His  affairs, 
like  the  affairs  of  many  other  French  gentlemen  and 
French  families,  were  entirely  in  Tellson’s  hands.  In  a 
similar  way,  I am,  or  I have  been,  trustee  of  one  kind  or 
other  for  scores  of  our  customers.  These  are  mere  busi- 
ness relations,  miss  ; there  is  no  friendship  in  them,  no 
particular  interest,  nothing  like  sentiment.  I have 
passed  from  one  to  another,  in  the  course  of  my  business 
life,  just  as  I pass  from  one  of  our  customers  to  another 
in  the  course  of  my  business  day  ; in  short,  I have  no 
feelings  ; I am  a mere  machine.  To  go  on — ” 

“But  this  is  my  father’s  story,  sir;  and  I begin  to 
think  ” — the  curiously  roughened  forehead  was  very  in- 
tent upon  him — “that  when  I was  left  an  orphan 
through  my  mother’s  surviving  my  father  only  two 
years,  it  was  you  who  brought  me  to  England.  I am 
almost  sure  it  was  you.” 

Mr.  Lorry  took  the  hesitating  little  hand  that  confide 
ingly  advanced  to  take  his,  and  he  put  it  with  some 
ceremony  to  his  lips.  He  then  conducted  the  young  lady 
straightway  to  her  chair  again,  and,  holding  the  chair- 
back  with  his  left  hand,  and  using  his  right  by  turns  to 
rub  his  chin,  pull  his  wig  at  the  ears,  or  point  what  he 
said,  stood  looking  down  into  her  face  while  she  sat 
looking  up  into  his. 

“Miss  Manette,  it  was  I.  And  you  will  see  how  truly 
I spoke  of  myself  just  now,  in  saying  I had  no  feelings, 
and  that  all  the  relations  I hold  with  my  fellow-creatures 
are  mere  business  relations,  when  you  reflect  that  I have 
never  seen  you  since.  No  ; you  have  been  the  ward  of 
Tellson’s  House  since,  and  1 have  been  busy  with  the 
other  business  of  Tellson’s  House  since.  Feelings  ! I 
have  no  time  for  them,  no  chance  of  them.  I pass  my 
whole  life,  miss,  in  turning  an  immense  pecuniary  Man- 
gle.” 

After  this  odd  description  of  his  daily  routine  of  em- 
ployment, Mr.  Lorry  flattened  his  flaxen  wig  upon  his 
head  with  both  hands  (which  was  most  unnecessary,  for 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


nothing  could  be  flatter  than  its  shining  surface  was  be- 
fore), and  resumed  his  former  attitude. 

“ So  far,  miss  (as  you  have  remarked),  this  is  the  story 
of  your  regretted  father.  Now  comes  the  difference. 
If  your  father  had  not  died  when  he  did — Don't  be 
frightened  ! How  you  start  ! ’*  ■ 

She  did*  indeed,  start.  And  she  caught  his  wrist  with 
both  her  hands. 

“Pray,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a soothing  tone,  bringing 
his  left  hand  from  the  back  of  the  chair  to  lay  it  on  the 
supplicatory  fingers  that  clasped  him  in  so  violent  a 
tremble,  “ pray  control  your  agitation — a matter  of 
business.  As  I was  saying—" 

Her  look  so  discomposed  him  that  he  stopped,  wan- 
dered, and  began  anew : 

“ As  I was  saying  ; if  Monsieur  Manette  had  not  died  ; 
if  he  had  suddenly  and  silently  disappeared  ; if  he  had 
been  spirited  away  ; if  it  had  not  been  difficult  to  guess 
to  what  dreadful  place,  though  no  art  could  trace  him ; 
if  he  had  an  enemy  in  some  compatriot  who  could  exer- 
cise a privilege  that  I in  my  own  time  have  known  the 
boldest  people  afraid  to  speak  of  in  a whisper,  across 
the  water  there  ; for  instance,  the  privilege  of  filling  up 
blank  forms  for  the  consignment  of  any  one  to  the  ob- 
livion of  a prison  for  any  length  of  time ; if  his  wife 
had  implored  the  king,  the  queen,  the  court,  the  clergy, 
for  any  tidings  of  him,  and  ail  quite  in  vain ; then  the 
history  of  your  father  would  have  been  the  history  of 
this  unfortunate  gentleman,  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais." 

“ I entreat  you  to  tell  me  more,  sir." 

“ I will.  I am  going  to.  You  can  bear  it  ?" 

“ I can  bear  anything  but  the  uncertainty  you  leave 
Me  in  at  this  moment.” 

“You  speak  collectedly,  and  you— are  collected. 
That's  good  ! " (Though  his  manner  was  less  satisfied 
than  his  words.)  “A  matter  of  business.  Regard  it  as 
a matter  of  business — business  that  must  be  done.  Now, 
if  this  Doctor's  wife,  though  a lady  of  great  courage  and 
spirit,  had  suffered  so  intensely  from  this  cause  before 
her  little  child  was  bom — " 

“ The  little  child  was  a daughter,  sir." 

“ A daughter.  A — a — matter  of  business — don't  be 
distressed.  Miss,  if  the  poor  lady  had  suffered  so  in- 
tensely before  her  little  child  was  born,  that  she  came 
to  the  determination  of  sparing  the  poor  child  the  in- 
heritance of  any  part  of  the  agony  she  had  known  the 
pains  of,  by  rearing  her  in  the  belief  that  her  father  was 
dead — No,  don't  kneel  ! In  Heaven’s  name  why  should 
you  kneel  to  me  ! " 

“For  the  truth.  O dear,  good,  compassionate  sir,  for 
the  truth  1 " 


2i  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 

44  A — a matter  of  business.  You  confuse  me,  and  how 
can  I transact  business  if  I am  confused?  Let  us  be 
clear-headed.  If  you  could  kindly  mention  now,  for  in- 
stance, what  nine  times  ninepence  are,  or  liow  many 
shillings  in  twenty  guineas,  it  would  be  so  encouraging. 
I should  be  so  much  more  at  my  ease  about  your  state  of 
mind.” 

Without  directly  answering  to  this  appeal,  she  sat  so 
still  when  he  had  very  gently  raised  her,  and  the  hands 
that  had  not  ceased  to  clasp  his  wrists  were  so  much 
iMore  steady  than  they  had  been,  that  she  communicated 
some  reassurance  to  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

4 4 That's  right,  that's  right.  Courage  ! Business  ! 
You  have  business  before  you  ; useful  business.  Miss 
Manette,  your  mother  took  this  course  with  you.  And 
when  she  died — I believe,  broken-hearted — h ving  never 
slackened  her  unavailing  search  for  your  father,  she  left 
you,  at  two  years  old,  to  grow  to  be  blooming,  beautiful, 
and  happy,  without  the  dark  cloud  upon  you  of  living 
in  uncertainty  whether  your  father  soon  wore  his  heart 
out  in  prison,  or  wasted  there  through  many  lingering 
years.” 

As  he  said  the  words,  he  looked  down,  with  an  admir- 
ing pity,  on  the  flowing  golden  hair  ; as  if  he  pictured 
to  himself  that  it  might  have  been  already  tinged  with 
grey. 

44  You  know  that  your  parents  had  no  great  posses- 
sion, and  that  what  they  had  was  secured  to  your  mother 
and  to  you.  There  has  been  no  new  discovery,  of  money, 
or  of  any  other  property  ; but — ” 

He  felt  his  wrist  held  closer,  and  he  stopped.  The 
expression  in  th  forehead,  which  had  so  particularly  at- 
tracted his  notice,  and  which  was  now  immovable,  had 
deepened  into  one  of  pain  and  horror. 

44  But  he  has  been — been  found.  He  is  alive.  Greatly 
changed  it  is  too  pro. able;  almost  a wreck,  it  is  possi- 
ble ; though  w^e  w 11  hope  the  best.  Still,  alive.  Your 
father  has  been  taken  to  the  house  of  an  old  servant  in 
Paris,  and  we  are  going  there  : I,  to  identify  him,  if  I 
can  : you,  to  restore  him  to  life,  love,  duty,  rest,  com- 
fort.” 

A shiver  ran  through  her  frame,  and  from  it  through 
his.  She  said,  in  a low,  distinct,  awe-stricken  voice,  as 
if  she  were  saying  it  in  a dream. 

44 1 am  going  to  see  his  Ghost  ! It  will  be  his  Ghost — 
not  him  ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  quietly  chafed  the  hands  that  held  his  arm. 

There,  there,  there  ! See  now,  see*  now  ! The  best 
and  the  worst  are  known  to  you  now.  You  are  well  on 
your  way  to  the  poor  wronged  gentleman,  and,  with  a 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


25 


fair  sea  voyage,  and  a fair  land  journey,  you  will  be 
soon  at  his  dear  side.” 

She  repeated  in  the  same  tone,  sunk  to  a whisper,  **  I 
have  been  free,  I have  been  happy,  yet  his  Ghost  has 
Bever  haunted  me  ! ” 

6e  Only  one  thing  more,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  laying  stress 
upon  it  as  a wholesome  means  of  enforcing  her  atten- 
tion : ‘Hie  has  been  found  under  another  name  ; his  own, 
long  forgotten  or  long  concealed.  It  would  be  worse 
than  useless  now  to  inquire  which  ; worse  than  useless 
to  seek  to  know  whether  he  has  been  for  years  over- 
looked. or  al  ways  designedly  held  prisoner.  It  would  be 
worse  than  useless  now  to  make  any  inquiries,  because 
it  would  be  dangerous.  Better  not  to  mention  the  sub- 
ject, anywhere  or  in  any  way,  and  to  remove  him — for  a 
while  at  all  events— out  of  France.  Even  I,  safe  as  an 
Englishman,  and  even  Tellson’s,  important  as  they  are 
to  French  credit,  avoid  all  naming  of  the  matter.  I 
carry  r/oout  me,  not  a scrap  of  writing  openly  referring 
So  it.  This  is  a secret  service  altogether.  My  creden- 
tials, entries,  and  memoranda,  are  all  comprehended  in 
the  one  line,  e Recalled  to  Life  ; * which  may  mean  any- 
thing.  But  what  is  the  matter  I She  doesn’t  notice  a 
word  ! Miss  Manette  ! ” 

Perfectly  still  and  silent,  and  not  even  fallen  back  in 
her  chair,  she  sat  under  his  hand,  utterly  insensible ; 
with  her  eyes  open  and  fixed  upon  him,  and  with  that 
last  expression  looking  as  if  it  were  carved  or  branded 
into  her  forehead.  So  close  was  her  hold  upon  his 
arm,  that  he  feared  to  detatch  himself  lest  he  should 
hurt  her  ; therefore  he  called  out  loudly  for  assistance 
without  moving. 

A wild-looking  woman,  whom  even  in  his  agitation 
Mr.  Lorry  observed  to  be  all  of  a red  colour,  and  to  have 
red  hair,  and  to  be  dressed  in  some  extraordinary  tight- 
fitting  fashion,  and  to  have  on  her  head  a most  wonder- 
ful bonnet  like  a Grenadier  wooden  measure,  and  good 
measure  too,  or  a great  Stilton  cheese,  came  running 
into  the  room  in  advance  of  the  inn  servants,  and  soon 
settled  the  question  of  his  detachment  from  the  poor 
3?oung  lady,  by  laying  a brawny  hand  upon  his  chest, 
md  sending  him  flying  back  against  the  nearest  wall, 

(“  I really  think  this  must  be  a man  ! ” was  Mr.  Lor- 
ry’s breathless  reflection,  simultaneously  with  his  com- 
ing against  the  wall.) 

“ Why,  look  at  you. all  ! ” bawled  this  figure,  address- 
ing the  inn  servants.  “ Why  don’t  you  go  and  fetch 
things,  instead  of  standing  there  staring  at  me?  I am 
not  so  much  to  look  at,  am  I ? Why  don’t  you  go  and 
fetch  things?  I’ll  let  you  know,  if  you  don’t  bring 
smelling-salts,  cold  water,  and  vinegar,  quick,  I will ! " 

-B  Vol.  11 


26 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


There  was  an  immediate  dispersal  for  these  restora- 
tives, and  she  softly  laid  the  patient  on  a sofa,  and 
tended  Tier  with  great  skill  and  gentleness  : calling  her 
" my  precious  !”  and  “my  bird  !”  and  spreading  her 
golden  hair  aside  over  her  shoulders  with  great  pride 
and  care. 

“ And  you  in  brown  \"  she  said,  indignantly  turning 
to  Mr.  Lorry  ; “ couldn’t  you  tell  her  what  you  had  to 
tell  her,  without  frightening  her  to  death  ? Look  at  her, 
with  her  pretty  pale  face  and  her  cold  hands.  Do  you 
call  that  being  a Banker  ? 99 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  exceedingly  disconcerted  by  a ques- 
tion  so  hard  to  answer,  that  he  could  only  look  on,  at  8 
distance,  with  much  feebler  sympathy  and  humility, 
while  the  strong  woman,  having  banished  the  inn  ser- 
vants under  the  mysterious  penalty  of  “ letting  them 
know  99  something  not  mentioned  if  they  stayed  there, 
staring,  recover  her  charge  by  a regular  series  of  grada* 
tions,  and  coaxed  her  to  lay  her  drooping  head  upon  her 
shoulder. 

“I  hope  she  will  do  well  now,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ No  thanks  to  you  in  brown,  if  she  does.  My  darling 
pretty  ! ” 

**  I hope,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  after  another  pause  of  fee* 
ble  sympathy  and  humility,  “ that  you  accompany  Miss 
Manette  to  France  ? ” 

“ A likely  thing,  too  ! 99  replied  the  strong  woman. 
" If  it  was  ever  intended  that  I should  go  across  salt 
water,  do  you  suppose  Providence  would  have  cast  my 
lot  in  an  island  ? ” 

This  being  another  question  hard  to  answer,  Mr.  Jarvis 
Lorry  withdrew  to  consider  it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Wineshop. 

A LARGE  cask  of  wine  had  been  dropped  and  broken, 
in  the  street.  The  accident  had  happened  in  getting  it 
out  of  a cart ; the  cask  had  tumbled  out  with  a run, 
the  hoops  had  burst,  and  it  lay  on  the  stones  just  out- 
side the  door  of  the  wine-shop,  shattered  like  a walnut  - 
shell. 

All  the  people  within  reach  had  'suspended  their  busi- 
ness, or  their  idleness,  to  run  to  the  spot  and  drink  the 
wine.  The  rough,  irregular  stones  of  the  street,  point- 
ing every  way,  and  designed,  one  might  have  thought, 
expressly  to  lame  all  living  creatures  that  approached 
them,  had  dammed  it  into  little  pools  ; these  were  sur- 


—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  27. 


28 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


rounded*  each  fay  its  own  jostling  group  or  crowd,  ac« 
'cording  to  its  size.  Some  men.  kneeled  down,  mad*# 
scoops  of  their  two  hands  joined,  and  sipped,  or  tried  to 
help  women,  who  bent  over  their  shoulders,  to  sip,  be. 
fore  the  wine  kad  all  run  out  between  their  fingersc 
Others,  men  and  women,  dipped  in  the  puddles  with  lit- 
tle mugs  of  multilated  earthenware,  or  even  with  hand- 
kerchiefs from  women’s  heads,  which  were  squeezed 
dry  into  infants’ mouths  ; others  made  small  mud-em- 
bankments, to  stem  the  wine  as  it  ran  ; others,  directed 
by  lookers-on  up  at  high  windows,  darted  here  and  there, 
to  cut  off  little  streams  of  wine  that  started  away  in  new 
directions  ; others,  devoted  themselves  to  the  sodden 
and  lee-dyed  pieces  of  the  cask,  licking,  and  even  champ* 
ing  the  moister  wine-rotted  fragments  with  eager  relish. 
There  was  no  drainage  to  carry  off  the  wine,  and  not 
only  did  it  all  get  taken  up,  but  so  much  mud  got  taken 
up  along  with  it,  that  there  might  have  been  a scaven- 
ger in  the  street,  if  anybody  acquainted  with  it  could 
have  believed  in  such  a miraculous  presence. 

A shrill  sound  of  laughter  and  of  amused  voices-— 
voices  of  men,  women,  and  children — resounded  in  tba 
Street  while  this  wine-game  lasted.  There  was  little 
roughness  in  the  sport , and  much  play f ulness.  There  was 
a special  companionship  in  it,  an  observable  inclination 
on  the  part  of  every  one  to  join  some  other  one,  which  led, 
especially  among  the  luckier  or  lighter-hearted,  to  frolic- 
some embraces,  drinking  of  healths,  shaking  of  hands, 
and  even  joining  of  hands  and  dancing,  a dozen  together. 
When  the  wine  was  gone,  and  the  places  where  it  had 
been  most  abundant  were  raked  into  a gridiron -pattern  by 
fingers,  these  demonstrations  ceased,  as  suddenly  as  they 
had  broken  out.  The  man  who  had  left  his  saw  sticking 
in  the  fire- wood  he  was  cutting,  set  it  in  motion  again  ; 
the  woman  who  had  left  on  a door  step  the  little  pot  of 
hot-ashes,  at  which  she  had  been  trying  to  soften  the 
pain  in  her  own  starved  fingers  and  toes,  or  in  those  of 
her  child,  returned  to  it men  with  bare  arms,  matted 
locks,  and  cadaverous  faces,  who  had  emerged  into  the 
winter  light  from  cellars,  moved  away  to  descend  again  ; 
and  a gloom  gathered  on  the  scene  that  appeared  more 
natural  to  it  than  sunshine. 

The  wine  was  red  wine,  and  had  •stained  the  ground  of 
the  narrow  street  in  the  suburb  of  fiJaiat  Antoine,  in 
Paris,  where  it  was  spilled.  It  had  stained  many  hands, 
too,  and  many  faces,  and  many  naked  feet,  and  many 
wooden  shoes.  The  hands  of  the  man  who  sawed  the 
wood, left  red  marks  on  the  billets  ; and  the  forehead  of  the 
woman  who  nursed  her  baby,  was  stained  with  the  stain 
of  the  old  rag  she  wound  about  her  head  again.  Those 
who  had  been  greedy  with  the  staves  of  the  cask,  had 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


29 


acquired  a tigerish  smear  about  the  mouth ; and  one  tall 
joker  so  besmirched,  his  head  more  out  of  a long  squalid 
bag  of  a nightcap  than  in  it,  scrawled  upon  a wall  with 
his  finger  dipped  in  muddy  wine  lees — Blood. 

The  time  was  to  come,  when  that  wine  too  would  be 
spilled  on  the  street-stones,  and  when  the  stain  of  it 
would  be  red  upon  many  there. 

And  now  that  the  cloud  settled  on  Saint  Antoine,  which 
a momentary  gleam  had  driven  from  his  sacred  counte- 
nance, the  darkness  of  it  was  heavy — cold,  dirt,  sickness, 
ignorance,  and  want,  were  the  lords  in  waiting  on  the 
saintly  presence — nobles  of  great  power  all  of  them;  but, 
most  especially  the  last.  Samples  of  a people  that  had 
undergone  a terrible  grinding  and  regrinding  in  the  mill, 
and  certainly  not  in  tlje  fabulous  mill  which  ground  old 
people  young,  shivered  at  every  corner,  passed  in  and 
out  at  every  doorway,  looked  from  every  window,  flut- 
tered in  every  vestige  of  a garment  that  the  wind  shook. 
The  mill  which  had  worked  them  down,  was  the  mill 
that  grinds  young  people  old  ; the  children  had  ancient 
faces  and  grave  voices  ; and  upon  them,  and  upon  the 
grown  faces,  and  ploughed  into  every  furrow  of  age  and 
coming  up  afresh,  was  the  sign.  Hunger.  It  was  preva- 
lent everywhere.  Hunger  was  pushed  out  of  the  tall 
houses,  in  the  wretched  clothing  that  hung  upon  poles 
and  lines  ; Hunger  was  patched  into  them  with  straw 
and  rag  and  wood  and  paper  ; Hunger  was  repeated  in 
every  fragment  of  the  small  modicum  of  firewood  that 
the  man  sawed  off  ; Hunger  stared  down  from  the  smoke- 
less chimneys,  and  started  up  from  the  filthy  street  that 
had  no  offal,  among  its  refuse,  of  anything  to  eat.  Hun- 
ger was  the  inscription  on  the  baker’s  shelves,  written  in 
every  small  loaf  of  his  scanty  stock  of  bad  bread  ; at  the 
sausage-shop,  in  every  dead  dog  preparation  that  was 
offered  for  sale.  Hunger  rattled  its  dry  bones  among  the 
roasting  chestnuts  in  the  turned  cylinder  ; Hunger  was 
shred  into  atomies  in  every  farthing  porringer  of  husky 
chips  of  potato,  fried  with  some  reluctant  drops  of  oil. 

* Its  abiding-place  was  in  all  things  fitted  to  it.  A 
narrow  winding  street,  full  of  offence  and  stench,  with 
other  narrow  winding  streets  diverging,  all  peopled  by 
rags  and  nightcaps,  and  all  smelling  of  rags  and  night- 
caps, and  all  visible  things  with  a brooding  look  upon 
them  that  looked  ill.  In  the  hunted  air  of  the  people 
there  was  yet  some  wild- beast  thought  of  the  possibility 
of  turning  at  bay.  Depressed  and  slinking  though  they 
were,  eyes  of  fire  were  not  wanting  among  them  ; nor 
compressed  lip,  white  with  what  they  suppressed  ; nor 
foreheads  knitted  into  the  likeness  of  the  gallows-rope 
they  mused  about  enduring,  or  inflicting.  The  trade- 
signs  (and  they  were  almost  as  many  as  the  shops),  were. 


30 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


all,  grim  illustrations  of  Want.  The  butcher  and  the 
porkman  painted  up,  only  the  leanest  scrags  of  meat; 
the  baker,  the  coarsest  of  meagre  loaves.  The  people 
rudely  pictured  as  drinking  in  the  wine-shops,  croaked 
over  their  scanty  measures  of  thin  wine  and  beer,  and 
were  gloweringly  confidential  together.  Nothing  was 
represented  in  a flourishing  condition,  save  tools  and 
weapons  ; but,  the  cutler's  knives  and  axes  were  sharp 
and  bright,  the  smith's  hammers  were  heavy,  and  the 
gunmaker's  stock  was  murderous.  The  crippling  stones 
of  the  pavement,  with  their  many  little  reservoirs  of  mud 
and  water,  had  no  footways,  but  broke  off  abruptly  at 
the  doors.  The  kennel,  to  make  amends,  ran  down  the 
middle  of  the  street — when  it  ran  at  all : which  was 
only  after  heavy  rains,  and  then  it  ran,  by  many  eccentric 
fits,  into  the  houses.  Across  the  streets,  at  wide  inter- 
vals, one  clumsy  lamp  was  slung  by  a rope  and  pully  : 
at  night,  when  the  lamplighter  had  let  these  down,  and 
lighted,  and  hoisted  them  again,  a feeble  grove  of  dim 
wicks  swung  in  a sickly  manner  overhead,  as  if  they 
were  at  sea.  Indeed  they  were  at  sea,  and  the  ship  and 
crew  were  in  peril  of  tempest. 

For,  the  time  was  to  come,  when  the  gaunt  scarecrows 
of  that  region  should  have  watched  the  lamplighter,  in 
their  idleness  and  hunger,  so  long,  as  to  conceive  the 
idea  of  improving  on  his  method,  and  hauling  up  men  by 
those  ropes  and  pulleys,  to  flare  upon  the  darkness  of  their 
condition.  But,  the  time  was  not  come  yet ; and  every 
wind  that  blew  over  France  shook  the  rags  of  the  scare- 
crows in  vain,  for  the  birds,  fine  of  song  and  feather, 
took  no  warning. 

The  wine- shop  was  a corner  shop,  better  than  most 
others  in  its  appearance  and  degree,  and  the  master  of 
the  wine- shop  had  stood  outside  it,  in  a yellow  waist- 
coat and  green  breeches,  looking  on  at  the  struggle  for 
the  lost  wine.  “ It's  not  my  affair/'  said  he,  with  a final 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  “ The  people  from  the  market 
did  it.  Let  them  bring  another.” 

“ There,  his  eyes  happening  to  catch  the  tall  joker 
writing  up  his  joke,  he  called  to  him  across  the  way  : 

“ Say,  then,  my  Gaspard,  what  do  you  do  there  ? ” 

The  fellow  pointed  to  his  joke  with  immense  signifi- 
cance, as  is  often  the  way  with  his  tribe.  It  missed  its 
mark,  and  completely  failed,  as  is  often  the  way  with 
his  tribe  too. 

“ What  now  ? Are  you  a subject  for  the  mad-hospi- 
tal  ? ” said  the  wine-shop  keeper,  crossing  the  road,  and 
obliterating  the  jest  with  a handful  of  mud,  picked  up 
for  the  purpose,  and  smeared  over  it.  “ Why  do  you 
write  in  the  public  streets  ? Is  there — tell  me  thou — is 
there  no  other  place  to  write  such  words  in  ? ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


31 


In  his  expostulation  he  dropped  his  cleaner  hand  (per- 
haps accidentally,  perhaps  not),  upon  the  joker’s  heart. 
The  joker  rapped  with  his  own,  took  a nimble  spring 
upward,  and  came  down  in  a fantastic  dancing  attitude, 
with  one  of  his  stained  shoes  jerked  off  his  foot  into  his 
hand,  and  held  out.  A joker  of  an  extremely,  not  to  say 
wolfishly,  practical  character,  he  looked,  under  those  cir- 
cumstances. 

“ Put  it  on,  put  it  on,”  said  the  other.  “Call  wine, 
wine  ; and  finish  there.”  With  that  advice,  he  wiped 
his  soiled  hand  upon  the  joker’s  dress,  such  as  it  was—, 
quite  deliberately,  as  having  dirtied  the  hand  on  his  acr 
count ; and  then  re-crossed  the  road  and  entered  the 
wine  shop. 

The  wine-shop  keeper  was  a bull -necked,  martial- 
booking  man  of  thirty,  and  he  should  have  be&n  of  a hot 
temperament,  for,  although  it  was  a bitter  day,  he  wore 
no  coat,  but  carried  one  slung  over  his  shoulder.  Hi$ 
shirt-sleeves  were  rolled  up,  too,  and  his  brown  arms 
were  bare  to  the  elbows.  Neither  did  he  wear  anything 
more  on  his  head  than  his  own  crisply -curling  short  dark 
hair.  He  was  a dark  man  altogether,  with  good  eyef 
and  a good  bold  breadth  between  them.  Good-hu 
moured-looking  on  the  whole,  but  implacable-looking, 
too ; evidently  a man  of  a strong  resolution  and  a set 
purpose  ; a man  not  desirable  to  be  met  rushing  down  a 
narrow  pass  wuth  a gulf  on  either  side,  for  nothing 
would  turn  the  man. 

Madame  Defarge,  his  wife,  sat  in  the  shop  behind  the 
counter  as  he  came  in.  Madame  Defarge  was  a stout 
woman  of  about  his  own  age,  with  a watchful  eye  that 
seldom  seemed  to  look  at  anything,  a large  hand  heavily 
ringed,  a steady  face,  strong  features,  and  great  com- 
posure of  manner.  There  was  a character  about  Madame 
Defarge,  from  which  one  might  have  predicated  that  she 
did  not  often  make  mistakes  against  herself  in  any  of 
the  reckonings  over  which  she  presided.  Madame  De- 
farge being  sensitive  to  cold,  was  wrapped  in  fur,  and 
had  a quantity  of  bright  shawl  twined  about  her  head, 
though  not  to  the  concealment  of  her  large  ear-rings. 
Her  knitting  was  before  her,  but  she  had  laid  it  down  to 
pick  her  teeth  with  a tooth-pick.  Thus  engaged,  with 
her  right  elbow  supported  by  her  left  hand,  Madame  De- 
farge said  nothing  when  her  lord  came  in,  but  coughed 
just  one  grain  of  cough.  This,  in  combination  with  the 
lifting  of  her  darkly  defined  eyebrows  over  her  toothpi  k 
by  the  breadth  of  a line,  suggested  to  her  husband  that 
he  would  do  well  to  look  round  the  shop  among  the  cus- 
tomers, for  any  new  customer  who  had  dropped  in  while 
he  stepped  over  the  way. 

The  wine-shop  keeper  accordingly  rolled  his  eyes 


32  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

about,  until  tbey  rested  upon  an  elderly  gentleman  and 
a young  lady,  who  were  seated  in  a corner.  Other  com- 
pany were  there  : two  playing  cards,  two  playing  domi- 
noes, three  standing  by  the  counter  lengthening  out  a 
short  supply  of  wine.  As  he  passed  behind  the  counter, 
hejook  notice  that  the  elderly  gentleman  said  in  a look 
to  the  young  lady,  “ This  is  our  man.” 

“ What  the  devil  do  you  do  in  that  galley  there  ! ” said 
Monsieur  Defarge  to  himself  ; “ I don’t  know  you.” 

But  he  feigned  not  to  notic  the  two  strangers,  and 
fell  into  discourse  with  the  triumvirate  of  customers  who 
were  drinking  at  the  counter. 

“How  goes  it,  Jacques?”  said  one  of  these  three  to 
Monsieur  Defarge.  “Is  all  the  spilt  wine  swallowed?” 

“Every  drop,  Jacques,”  answered  Monsieur  Defarge. 

When  this  interchange  of  Christian  name  was  effected, 
Madame  Defarge,  picking  her  teeth  with  her  toothpick, 
coughed  another  grain  of  cough , and  raised  her  eyebrows 
by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

“ It  is  not  often,”  said  the  second  of  the  three,'  ad- 
dressing Monsieur  Defarge,  “ that  many  of  these  miser- 
able beasts  know  the  taste  of  wine,  or  of  anything  but 
black  bread  and  death.  Is  it  not  so,  Jacques?  ” 

“ It  is  so,  Jacques,”  Monsieur  Defarge  returned. 

At  this  second  interchange  of  the  Christian  name,  Ma- 
dame Defarge,  still  using  her  toothpick  with  profound 
composure,  coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and  raised 
her  eyebrows  by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

The  last  of  the  three  now  said  his  say,  as  he  put  down 
his  empty  drinking  vessel  and  smacked  his  lips. 

“ Ah  ! So  much  the  worse  ! A bitter  taste  it  is  that 
v»uch  poor  cattle  always  have  in  their  mouths,  and  hard 
lives  they  live,  Jacques.  Am  I right,  Jacques?” 

“ You  are  right,  Jacques,”  was  the  response  of  Mon- 
sieur Defarge. 

This  third  interchange  of  the  Christian  name  was  com- 
pleted at  the  moment  when  Madame  Defarge  put  her 
toothpick  by,  kept  her  eyebrows  up,  and  slightly  rustled 
in  her  seat. 

“ Hold  then  ! True  !”  muttered  her  husband.  “ Gen- 
tlemen— my  wife  ! ” 

The  three  customers  pulled  off  their  hats  to  Madame 
Defarge,  with  three  flourishes.  She  acknowledged  their 
homage  by  bending  her  head,  and  giving  them  a quick 
look.  Then  she  glanced  in  a casual  manner  round  the 
wine-shop,  took  up  her  knitting  with  great  apparent 
calmness  and  repose  of  spirit,  and  became  absorbed  in  it. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  her  husband,  who  had  kept  his 
bright  eye  observantly  upon  her,  “ good  day.  The 
chamber,  furnished  bachelor-fashion,  that  you  wished  to 
see,  and  were  inquiring  for  when  I stepped  out,  is  oa 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


38 


the  fifth  floor.  The  doorway  of  the  staircase  gives  on 
the  little  court-yard  close  to  the  left  here/’  pointing 
with  his  hand,  ‘‘near  to  the  window  of  my  establish- 
ment. But,  now  that  I remember,  one  of  you  lias  already 
been  there,  and  can  show  the  way.  Gentlemen,  adieu  ! ” 

They  paid  for  their  wine,  and  left  the  place.  The  eyes 
of  Monsieur  Defarge  were  studying  his  wife  at  her 
knitting,  when  the  elderly  gentleman  advanced  from  his 
corner,  and  begged  the  favour  of  a word. 

“Willingly,  sir,”  said  Monsieur  De targe,  and  quietly 
stepped  with  him  to  the  door. 

Their  conference  was  very  short,  but  very  decided. 
Almost  at  the  first  word.  Monsieur  Defarge  started  and 
became  deeply  attentive.  It  had  not  lasted  a minute, 
when  he  nodded  and  went  out.  The  gentleman  then 
beckoned  to  the  young  lady,  and  they,  too,  went  out. 
Madame  Defarge  knitted  with  nimble  fingers  and  steady 
eyebrows,  and  saw  nothing. 

Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  and  Miss  Manette,  emerging  from 
the  wine-shop  thus,  joined  Monsieur  Defarge  in  the  door- 
way to  which  he  had  directed  his  other  company  just 
before.  It  opened  from  a stinking  little  black  court- 
yard, and  was  the  general  public  entrance  to  a great 
pile  of  houses,  inhabited  by  a great  number  of  people. 
In  the  gloomy  tile-paved  entry  to  the  gloomy  tile-paved 
staircase.  Monsieur  Defarge  bent  down  on  one  knee  to 
the  child  of  his  old  master,  and  put  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
It  was  a gentle  action,  but  not  at  all  gently  done  ; a very 
remarkable  transformation  had  come  over  him  in  a few 
seconds.  He  had  no  good  humour  in  his  face,  nor  any 
openness  of  aspect  left,  but  had  become  a secret,  angry, 
dangerous  man. 

“ It  is  very  high  ; it  is  a little  difficult.  Better  to  be* 
gin  slowly.  ” Thus,  Monsieur  Defarge,  in  a stern  voice, 
to  Mr.  Lorry,  as  they  began  ascending  the  stairs. 

“ Is  he  alone  ? ” the  latter  whispered. 

“Alone!  God  help  him  who  should  be  with  him!” 
said  the  other,  in  the  same  low  voice. 

“ Is  he  always  alone,  then  ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Of  his  own  desire  ? ” 

“ Of  his  own  necessity^  As  he  was  when  I first  saw 
him  after  they  found  me  and  demanded  to  know  if  I 
would  take  him,  and,  at  my  peril  be  discreet — as  he  was 
then,  so  be  is  now.” 

“ He  is  greatly  changed  ? ” 

‘ ‘ Changed  ! ” 

The  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  stopped  to  strike  the 
wall  with  his  hand,  and  mutter  a tremendous  curse. 
No  direct  answer  could  have  been  half  so  forcible.  Mr, 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


34 


Lorry’s  spirits  grew  heavier  and  heavier,  as  he  and  his 
two  companions  ascended  higher  and  higher. 

Such  a staircase,  with  its  accessories,  in  the  older  and 
more  crowded  parts  of  Paris,  would  he  had  enough  now  * 
but,  at  that  time,  it  was  vile  indeed  to  unaccustomed 
and  unhardened  senses.  Every  little  habitation  within 
the  great  foul  nest  of  one  high  building — that  is  to  say, 
the  room  or  rooms  within  every  door  that  opened  on  the 
general  staircase — left  its  own  heap  of  refuse  on  its  own 
landing,  besides  flinging  other  refuse  from  its  own  win- 
dows. The  uncontrollable  and  hopeless  mass  of  decom- 
position so  engendered,  would  have  polluted  the  air, 
even  if  poverty  and  deprivation  had  not  loaded  it  with 
their  intangible  impurities  ; the  two  bad  sources  com- 
bined made  it  almost  insupportable.  Through  such  an 
atmosphere,  by  a steep  dark  shaft  of  dirt  and  poison,  the 
way  lay.  Yielding  to  his  own  disturbance  of  mind,  and 
to  his  young  companion’s  agitation,  which  became  greater 
every  instant,  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  twice  stopped  to  rest. 
Each  of  these  stoppages  was  made  at  a doleful  grating, 
by  which  any  languishing  good  airs  that  were  left  un- 
corrupted, seemed  to  escape,  and  all  spoilt  and  sickly  va- 
pours seemed  to  crawl  in.  Through  the  rusted  bars, 
tastes,  rather  than  glimpses,  were  caught  of  the  jumbled 
neighbourhood  ; and  nothing  within  range,  nearer  or 
lower  than  the  summits  of  the  two  great  towers  of  Notre- 
Dame,  had  any  promise  on  it  of  healthy  life  or  whole- 
some aspirations. 

At  last,  the  top  of  the  staircase  was  gained,  and  they 
stopped  for  the  third  time.  There  was  yet  an  upper 
staircase,  of  a steeper  inclination  and  of  contracted  di- 
mensions, to  be  ascended,  before  the  garret  story  was 
reached.  The  keeper  of  the  wine-shop,  always  going  a 
little  in  advance,  and  always  going  on  the  side  which 
Mr.  Lorry  took,  as  though  he  dreaded  to  be  asked  any 
questions  by  the  young  lady,  turned  himself  about  here, 
and,  carefully  feeling  in  the  pockets  of  the  coat  he  car* 
ried  over  his  shoulder,  took  out  a key. 

“ The  door  is  locked  then,  my  friend  ? ” said  Mr.  Lorryr 
surprised. 

“ Ay.  Yes,”  was  the  grim  reply  of  Monsieur  Defarge. 

“ You  think  it  necessary  to  keep  the  unfortunate  gem 
tleman  so  retired  ? ” 

“ I think  it  necessary  to  turn  the  key.”  Monsieur  De* 
farge  whispered  it  closer  in  his  ear,  and  frowned  heavily 

“ Why  ? ” 

“ Why  ! Because  he  has  lived  so  long,  locked  up,  that 
he  would  be  frightened — rave — tear  himself  to  pieces — 
die — come  to  I know  not  what  harm — if  his  door  was  left 
open.” 

‘ 4 Is  it  possible  ! ” exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


35 


“ Is  it  possible  ? ” repeated  Defarge,  bitterly.  ,tfYqse 
And  a beautiful  world  we  live  in,  when  it  is  possible,  and 
when  many  other  such  things  are  possible,  and  not  only 
possible,  but  done  — done,  see  you  ! — under  that  sky 
there,  every  day.  Long  live  the  Devil.  Let  us  go  on.” 

This  dialogue  had  been  held  in  so  very  low  a whisper 
that  not  a word  of  it  had  reached  the  young  lady’s  ears. 
But,  by  this  time  she  trembled  under  such  strong  emo- 
tion, and  her  face  expressed  such  deep  anxiety,  and,  above 
all,  such  dread  and  terror,  that  Mr.  Lorry  felt  it  incum- 
bent on  him  to  speak  a word  or  two  of  reassurance. 

“Courage,  dear  Miss!  Courage!  Business!  The 
worst  will  be  over  in  a moment ; it  is  but  passing  the 
room  door,  and  the  worst  is  over.  Then,  all  the  good 
you  bring  to  him,  all  the  relief,  all  the  happiness  you 
bring  to  him,  begin.  Let  our  good  friend  here,  assist  you 
sn  that  side.  That’s  well,  friend  Defarge.  Come,  now, 
3usiness,  business  ! ” 

They  went  up  slowly  and  softly.  The  staircase  was 
short,  and  they  were  soon  at  the  top.  There,  as  it  had 
an  abrupt  turn  in  it,  they  came  all  at  once  in  sight  of 
three  men,  whose  heads  were  bent  down  close  together 
at  the  side  of  a door,  and  who  were  intently  looking  into 
the  room  to  which  the  door  belonged,  through  some 
chinks  or  holes  in  the  wall  On  hearing  footsteps  close 
at  hand  these  three  turned,  and  rose,  and  showed  them- 
selves to  be  the  three  of  one  name  who  had  been  drink- 
ing in  the  wine-shop. 

“ I forgot  them  in  the  surprise  of  your  visit,”  ex- 
plained Monsieur  Defarge.  “Leave  us,  good  boys  ; we 
have  business  here.” 

The  three  glided  by,  and  went  silently  down. 

There  appearing  to  be  no  other  door  on  that  floor,  and 
the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  going  straight  to  this  one 
when  they  were  left  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  in  a 
whisper,  with  a little  anger  : 

“ Do  you  make  a show  of  Monsieur  Manette  ?” 

“ I show  him,  in  the  way  you  have  seen,  to  a chosen 
few.” 

“ Is  that  well  ?” 

“ I think  it  is  well.” 

“ Who  are  the  few  ? How  do  you  choose  them 

“I  choose  them  as  real  men,  of  my  name — Jacques  is 
my  name  — to  whom  the  sight  is  likely  to  do  good. 
Enough  ; you  are  English  ; that  is  another  thing.  Stay 
there,  if  you  please,  a little  moment.” 

With  an  admonitory  gesture  to  keep  them  back,  he 
stooped,  and  looked  in  through  the  crevice  in  the  wall. 
Soon  raising  his  head  again,  he  struck  twice  or  thrice 
upon  the  door— evidently  with  no  other  object  than  to 
make  a noise  there.  With  the  same  intention,  he  drew 


36 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tlis  key  across  it,  three  or  four  times,  before  he  put  ft 
clumsily  into  the  lock,  and  turned  it  as  heavily  as  he 
could. 

The  door  slowly  opened  inward  under  his  hand,  and 
he  looked  into  the  room  and  said  something.  A faint 
voice  answered  something.  Little  more  than  a single 
syllable  could  have  been  spoken  on  either  side. 

He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  beckoned  them 
to  enter.  Mr.  Lorry  got  his  arm  securely  round  the 
daughter’s  waist,  and  held  her  ; for  he  felt  that  she  was 
sinking.  . . 

“ A — a — a — business,  business  ! ” he  urged,  with  a 
moisture  that  was  not  of  business  shining  on  his  cheek. 

‘ ‘ Come  in,  come  in  ! ” 

“ I am  afraid  of  it,”  she  answered,  shuddering, 

“Of  it?  What?” 

“ I mean  of  him.  Of  my  father.” 

Rendered  in  a manner  desperate,  by  her  state  and  by 
the  beckoning  of  their  conductor,  he  drew  over  his  neck 
the  arm  that  shook  upon  his  shoulder,  lifted  her  a little, 
and  hurried  her  into  the  room.  He  set  her  down  just 
within  the  door,  and  held  her,  clinging  to  him. 

Defarge  drew  out  the  key,  closed  the  door,  locked  it  on 
the  inside,  took  out  the  key  again,  and  held  it  in  his 
hand.  All  this  he  did,  methodically,  and  with  as  loud 
and  harsh  an  accompaniment  of  noise  as  he  could  make. 
Finally,  he  walked  across  the  room  with  a measured 
tread  to  where  the  window  was.  He  stopped  there,  and 
faced  round. 

The  garret,  built  to  be  a depository  for  firewood  and 
the  like,  was  dim  and  dark  : for,  the  "window  of  dormer 
shape,  was  in  truth  a door  in  the  roof,  with  a little  crane 
over  it  for  the  hoisting  lip  of  stores  from  the  street : un- 
glazed, and  closing  up  the  middle  in  two  pieces,  like  any 
other  door  of  French  construction.  To  exclude  the  cold, 
one  half  of  this  door  was  fast  closed,  and  the  other  was 
opened  but  a very  little  way.  Such  a scanty  portion  of 
light  was  admitted  through  these  means,  that  it  was 
difficult,  on  first  coming  in,  to  see  anything  ; and  long 
habit  alone  could  have  slowly  formed  in  any  one,  the 
ability  to  do  any  work  requiring  nicety  in  such  obscurity. 
Yet,  work  of  that  kind  was  being  done  in  the  garret , 
for,  with  his  hack  towards  the  door,  and  his  face  towards 
the  window  where  the  keeper  of  the  wine- shop  stood 
looking  at  him,  a white-haired  man  sat  on  a low  bench, 
stooping  forward  and  very  busy,  making  shoes. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


37 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Shoemaker. 

“ Good  day  ! ” said  Monsieur  Defarge,  looking  down 
at  the  white  head  that  bent  low  over  the  shoemaking. 

It  was  raised  for  a moment,  and  a very  faint  void 
responded  to  the  salutation,  as  if  it  were  at  a distance 
44  Good  day  ! ” 

“You  are  still  hard  at  work,  I see  ? ” 

After  a long  silence,  the  head  was  lifted  for  another 
moment,  and  the  voice  replied,  44  Yes— I am  working.” 
This  time,  a pair  of  haggard  eyes  had  looked  at  the 
questioner,  before  the  face  had  dropped  again. 

" The  faintness  of  the  voice  was  pitiable  and  dreadful. 
It  was  not  the  faintness  of  physical  weakness,  though 
confinement  and  hard  fare  no  doubt  had  their  part  in  it0 
Its  deplorable  peculiarity  was,  that  it  was  the  faintness 
of  solitude  and  disuse.  It  was  like  the  last  feeble  echo 
of  a sound  made  long  and  long  ago.  So  entirely  had  it 
lost  the  life  and  resonance  of  the  human  voice,  that  it 
affected  the  senses  like  a once  beautiful  colour,  faded 
away  into  a poor  weak  stain.  So  sunken  and  suppressed 
it  was,  that  it  was  like  a voice  underground.  So  ex- 
pressive it  was,  of  a hopeless  and  lost  creature,  that  a 
famished  traveller,  wearied  out  by  lonely  wandering  in 
a wilderness,  would  have  remembered  home  and  friends 
in  such  a tone  before  lying  down  to  die. 

Some  minutes  of  silent  work  had  passed,  and  the  hag- 
gard eyes  had  looked  up  again  : not  with  any  interest  or 
curiosity,  but  with  a dull  mechanical  perception,  before- 
hand, that  the  spot  where  the  only  visitor  they  were 
aware  of  had  stood,  was  not  yet  empty. 

4 4 1 want,”  said  Defarge,  who  had  not  removed  his 
gaze  from  the  shoemaker,  44  to  let  in  a little  more  light 
here.  You  can  bear  a little  more  ? ” 

The  shoemaker  stopped  his  work  ; looked,  with  a 
vacant  air  of  listening,  at  the  floor  on  one  side  of  him  ? 
then,  similarly,  at  the  Soor  on  the  other  side  of  him : 
then,  upward  at  the  speaker. 

44  What  did  you  say  ? ” 

“ You  can  bear  a little  more  light?  ’* 

44 1 must  bear  it,  if  you  let  it  in.”  (Laying  the  palest 
shadow  of  a stress  upon  the  second  word.) 

The  opened  half-door  was  opened  a little  further,  and 
secured  at  that  angle  for  the  time.  A broad  ray  of 
light  fell  into  the  garret,  and  showed  the  workman,  with 
an  unfinished  shoe  upon  his  lap,  pausing  in  his  labour. 
His  few  common  tools  and  various  scraps  of  leather 


88 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


were  at  his  feet  and  on  his  bench.  He  had  a white 
beard,  raggedly  ‘cut,  but  not  very  long,  a hollow  face, 
and  exceedingly  bright  eyes.  The  hollowness  and  thin- 
ness of  his  face  would  have  caused  them  to  look  large 
under  his  yet  dark  eyebrows  and  his  confused  white  hair, 
though  they  had  been  really  otherwise  ; but  they  were 
naturally  large,  and  looked  unnaturally  so.  His  yellow 
rags  of  shirt  lay  open  at  the  throat,  and  showed  his  body 
to  be  withered  and  worn.  He,  and  his  old  canvas  frock, 
and  his  loose  stockings,  and  all  his  poor  tatters  of  clothes 
had,  in  a long  seclusion  from  direct  light  and  air,  faded 
down  to  such  a dull  uniformity  of  parchment-yellow, 
that  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say  which  was  which. 

He  had  put  up  a hand  between  his  eyes  and  the  light, 
and  the  very  bones  of  it  seemed  transparent.  So  he  sat, 
with  a steadfastly  vacant  gaze,  pausing  in  his  work. 
He  never  looked  at  the  figure  before  him,  without  first 
looking  down  on  this  side  of  himself,  then  on  that,  as  if 
he  had  leit  the  habit  of  associating  place  with  sound  ; he 
never  spoke,  without  first  wandering  in  his  manner,  and 
forgetting  to  speak. 

“ Are  you  going  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  ? ,J 
$sked  Defarge,  motioning  to  Mr.  Lorry  to  come  forward. 

‘ ‘ What  did  you  say  ? ” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  ?” 

“ I can’t  say  that  I mean  to.  I suppose  so.  I don’t 
know.  ” 

But,  the  question  reminded  him  of  his  work,  and  he 
bent  over  it  again. 

Mr.  Lorry  came  silently  forward,  leaving  the  daughter 
by  the  door.  When  he  had  stood,  for  a minute  or  two, 
by  the  side  of  Defarge,  the  shoemaker  looked  up.  He 
showed  no  surprise  at  seeing  another  figure,  but  the  un- 
steady fingers  of  one  of  his  hands  strayed  to  his  lips 
as  he  looked  at  it  (his  lips  and  his  nails  were  of  the  same 
pale  lead-colour),  and  then  the  hand  dropped  to  his  work, 
and  he  once  more  bent  over  the  shoe.  The  look  and  the 
action  had  occupied  but  an  instant. 

“ You  have  a visitor,  you  see,”  said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

“ What  did  you  say  ?” 

“ Here  is  a visitor.” 

The  shoemaker  looked  up  as  before,  but  without  re- 
moving a hand  from  his  work. 

“Come!”  said  Defarge.  “Here  is  monsieur,  who 
knows  a well-made  shoe  when  he  sees  one.  Show  him 
that  slide  you  are  looking  at.  Take  it  monsieur.” 

Mr.  Lorry  took  it  in  his  hand. 

“ Tell  monsieur  what  kind  of  shoe  it  is,  and  the  makers 
name.” 

There  was  a longer  pause  than  usual,  before  the  shoe- 
maker replied  • 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


39 


“ I forget  what  it  was  you  asked  me.  What  did  you 
say  ? ” 

“ I said,  couldn't  you  describe  the  kind  of  shoe,  for 
monsieur's  inf ormation  ? ” 

44  It  is  a lady’s  shoe.  It  is  a young  lady’s  walking- 
shoe.  It  is  in  the  present  mode.  I never  saw  the  mode. 
I have  had  a pattern  in  my  hand.”  He  glanced  at  the 
shoe,  with  some  little  passing  touch  of  pride. 

44  And  the  maker’s  name?”  said  Defarge. 

Now  that  he  had  no  work  to  hold,  he  laid  the  knuckles 
of  the  right  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  left,  and  then  the 
knuckles  of  the  left  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  right,  and 
then  passed  a hand  across  his  bearded  chin,  and  so  on 
in  regular  changes,  without  a moment’s  intermission. 
The  task  of  recalling  him  from  the  vacancy  into  which 
he  always  sank  when  he  had  spoken,  was  like  recalling 
some  very  weak  person  from  a swoon,  or  endeavouring, 
in  the  hope  of  some  disclosure,  to  stay  the  spirit  of  a 
fast-dying*  man. 

44  Did  you  ask  me  for  my  name?” 

44  Assuredly  I did.” 

44  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.  ” 

“ Is  that  all  ? ” 

44  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower,” 

With  a weary  sound  that  was  not  a sigh,  nor  a groan, 
he  bent  to  work  again,  until  the  silence  was  again 
broken. 

44  You  are  not  a shoemaker  by  trade  ? ” said  Mr.  Lorry, 
looking  steadfastly  at  him. 

His  haggard  eyes  turned  to  Defarge  as  if  he  would 
have  transferred  the  question  to  him  ; but  as  no  help 
came  from  that  quarter,  they  turned  back  on  the  ques- 
tioner when  they  had  sought  the  ground. 

44 1 am  not  a shoemaker  by  trade?  No,  I was  not  a 
shoemaker  by  trade.  I — I learnt  it  here.  I taught 
myself.  I asked  leave  to — ” 

He  lapsed  away,  even  for  minutes,  ringing  those 
measured  changes  on  his  hands  the  whole  time.  His 
eyes  came  slowly  back,  at  last,  to  the  face  from  which  they 
had  wandered  ; when  they  rested  on  ita  he  started,  and 
resumed,  in  the  manner  of  a sleeper  that  moment  awake, 
reverting  to  a subject  of  last  night. 

4‘  I asked  leave  to  teach  myself,  and  I got  it  with  muck 
difficulty  after  a long  while,  and  I have  made  shoes  ever 
since.” 

As  he  held  out  his  band  for  the  shoe  that  had  been 
taken  from  him,  Mr.  Lorry  said,  still  looking  steadfastly 
in  his  face  : 

44  Monsieur  Manette,  do  you  remember  nothing;  of 

me!” 


40 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  shoe  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  he  sat  looking 
fixedly  at  the  questioner. 

“Monsieur  Manette;”  Mr.  Lorry  laid  his  hand  upon 
Defarge’s  arm  ; “ do  you  remember  nothing  of  this  man? 
Look  at  him.  Look  at  me.  Is  there  no  old  banker,  no 
old  business,  no  old  servant,  no  old  time,  rising  in  your 
mind,  Monsieur  Manette?” 

As  the  captive  of  many  years  sat  looking  fixedly,  by 
turns  at  Mr.  Lorry  and  at  fief  arge,  some  long  obliterated 
marks  of  an  actively  intent  intelligence  in  the  middle  of 
the  forehead,  gradually  forced  themselves  through  the 
black  mist  that  had  fallen  on  him.  They  were  over- 
clouded again,  they  were  fainter,  they  were  gone  ; but, 
they  had  been  there.  And  so  exactly  was  the  expression 
repeated  on  the  fair  young  face  of  her  who  had  crept 
along  the  wall  to  a point  where  she  could  see  him, 'and 
where  she  now  stood  looking  at  him,  with  hands  which 
at  first  had  been  only  raised  in  frightened  compassion,  if 
not  even  to  keep  him  off  and  shut  out  the  sight  of  him, 
but  which  were  now  extending  towards  him,  trembling 
with  eagerness  to  lay  the  spectral  face  upon  her  warm 
young  breast,  and  love  it  back  to  life  and  hope — so  ex- 
actly was  the  expression  repeated  (though  in  stronger 
characters)  on  her  fair  young  face,  that  it  looked  as 
though  it  had  passed,  like  a moving  light,  from  him  to 
her. 

Darkness  had  fallen  on  him  in  its  place.  He  looked 
at  the  two,  less  and  less  attentively,  and  his  eyes  in 
gloomy  abstraction  sought  the  ground  and  looked  about 
him  in  the  old  way.  Finally,  with  a deep  long  sigh,  h$ 
took  the  shoe  up  and  resumed  his  work. 

“ Have  you  recognised  him,  monsieur  ?”  asked  Defarge 
in  a whisper. 

“ Yes  ; for  a moment.  At  first  I thought  it  quite  hope, 
less,  but  I have  unquestionably  seen,  for  a single  moment^ 
the  face  that  I once  knew  well.  Hush  ! Let  us  drav 
further  back.  Hush  ! ” 

She  had  moved  from  the  wall  of  the  garret,  very  nea* 
to  the  bench  on  which  he  sat.  There  was  something  aw. 
ful  in  his  unconsciousness  of  the  figure  that  could  have 
put  out  its  hand  and  touched  him  as  he  stooped  over  his. 
labour. 

Not  a word  was  spoken,  not  a sound  was  made.  She 
stood,  like  a spirit,  beside  him,  and  he  bent  over  his  work. 

It  happened,  at  length,  that  he  had  occasion  to  change 
the  instrument  in  his  hand,  for  his  shoemakers  knife. 
It  lay  on  that  side  of  him  which  was  not  the  side  on  which 
she  stood.  He  had  taken  it  up,  and  was  stooping  to  work 
again,  when  his  eyes  caught  the  skirt  of  her  dress.  He 
raised  them,  and  saw  her  face.  The  two  spectator? 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


41 


started  forward,  but  she  stayed  them  with  a motion  of 
her  hand.  She  had  no  fear  of  his  striking  at  her  with 
the  knife,  though  they  had. 

He  stared  at  her  with  a fearful  look,  and  after  a while 
his  lips  began  to  form  some  words,  though  no  sound  pro- 
ceeded from  them.  By  degrees,  in  the  pauses  of  hi§ 
quick  and  laboured  breathing,  he  was  heard  to  say  : 

What  is  this  I ” 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  she  put  her 
two  hands  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  them  to  him ; then 
clasped  them  on  her  breast,  as  if  she  laid  his  ruined 
head  there. 

“ You  are  not  the  gaoler’s  daughter  V* 

She  sighed  “No.” 

“Who  are  you ?” 

Not  yet  trusting  the  tones  of  her  voice,  she  sat  down  on 
the  bench  beside  him.  He  recoiled,  but  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm.  A strange  thrill  struck  him  when  she  did 
so,  and  visibly  passed  over  his  frame  ; he  laid  the  knife 
down  softly,  as  he  sat  staring  at  her. 

Her  golden  hair,  which  she  wore  in  long  curls,  had 
been  hurriedly  pushed  aside,  and  fell  down  over  her 
neck.  Advancing  his  hand  by  little  and  little,  he  took 
it  up,  and  looked  at  it.  In  the  midst  of  the  action  he 
went  astray,  and,  with  another  deep  sigh,  fell  to  work  at 
his  shoemaking. 

But,  not  for  long.  Beleasing  his  arm,  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  shoulder.  After  looking  doubtfully  at  it, 
two  or  three  times,  as  if  to  be  sure  that  it  was  really 
there,  he  laid  down  his  work,  put  his  hand  to  his  neck, 
and  took  off  a blackened  string  with  a scrap  of  folded  rag 
attached  to  it.  He  opened  this,  carefully,  on  his  knee, 
and  it  contained  a very  little  quantity  of  hair  : not  more 
than  one  or  two  long  golden  hairs,  which  he  had,  in  some 
old  day,  wound  off  upon  his  finger. 

He  took  her  hair  into  his  hand  again,  and  looked  close- 
ly at  it.  “ It  is  the  same.  How  can  it  be  ! When  was 
it  ! How  was  it ! 99 

As  the  concentrating  expression  returned  to  his  fore- 
head, he  seemed  to  become  conscious  that  it  was  in  hers 
too.  He  turned  her  full  to  the  light,  and  looked  at  her. 

“ She  had  laid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  that  night 
when  I was  summoned  out — she  had  a fear  of  my  going, 
though  I had  none — and  when  I was  brought  to  the  North 
Tower  they  found  these  upon  my  sleeve.  ‘ You  will  leave 
fne  them  ? They  can  never  help  me  to  escape  in  the 
body,  though  they  may  in  the  spirit/  Those  were  the 
words  I said.  I remember  them  very  well.” 

He  formed  this  speech  with  his  lips  many  times  before 
be  could  utter  it.  But  when  he  did  find  spoken  words 
for  it,  they  came  to  him  coherently,  though  slowly. 


“ WHAT  IS  THIS  ? ” 

—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  42. 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


43 


**  How  was  this  ? — Was  it  you  f ” 

Once  more,  the  two  spectators  started,  as  he  turned 
upon  her  with  a frightful  suddenness.  But  she  sat  per- 
fectly still  in  his  grasp,  and  only  said,  in  a low  voice,  “ I 
entreat  you,  good  gentlemen,  do  not  come  near  us,  do  not 
speak,  do  not  move  ! ” 

“ Harkd”  he  exclaimed  j “ Whose  voice  was  that?** 

His  hands  released  her  as  he  uttered  this  cry,  and  went 
up  to  his  white  hair,  which  they  tore  in  a frenzy.  It 
died  out,  as  everything  but  his  shoemaking  did  die  out 
of  him,  and  he  refolded  his  little  packet  and  tried  to  se- 
cure it  in  his  breast ; but,  he  still  looked  at  her,  and 
gloomily  shook  his  head. 

“ No,  no,  no  ; you  are  too  young,  too  blooming.  It 
can't  be.  See  what  the  prisoner  is.  These  are  not  the 
hands  she  knew,  this  is  not  the  face  she  knew,  this  is  not 
a voice  she  ever  heard.  No,  no.  She  was— and  He  was 
before  the  slow  years  of  the  North  Tower— ages  ago. 
What  is  your  name,  my  gentle  angel  ? ” 

Hailing  his  softened  tone  and  manner,  his  daughter  fell 
upon  her  knees  before  him,  with  her  appealing  hands 
upon  his  breast. 

“ O,  sir,  at  another  time  you  shall  know  my  name,  and 
who  my  mother  was,  and  who  my  father,  and  how  I never 
knew  their  hard,  hard  history.  But  I cannot  tell  you  at 
this  time,  and  I cannot  tell  you  here.  All  that  I may  tell 
you,  here  and  now,  is,  that  I pray  to  you  to  touch  me 
and  to  bless  me.  Kiss  me,  kiss  me  ! O my  dear,  my 
dear  ! M 

His  cold  white  head  mingled  with  her  radiant  hair, 
which  warmed  and  lighted  it  as  though  it  were  the  light 
of  Freedom  shining  on  him. 

“ If  you  hear  in  my  voice — I don’t  know  that  it  is  so, 
but  I hope  it  is — if  you  hear  in  my  voice  any  resemblance 
to  a voice  that  once  was  sweet  music  in  your  ears,  weep 
for  it,  weep  for  it  ! If  you  touch,  in  touching  my  hair, 
anything  that  recals  a beloved  head  that  lay  in  your 
breast  when  you  were  young  and  free,  weep  for  it,  weep 
for  it ! If,  when  I hint  to  you  of  a Home  there  is  before 
us,  where  I will  be  true  to  you  with  all  my  duty  and 
with  all  my  faithful  service,  I bring  back  the  remem- 
brance of  a Home  long  desolate,  while  your  poor  heart 
pined  away,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it  ! ” 

She  held  him  closer  round  the  neck,  and  rocked  him 
6n  her  breast  like  a child. 

“ If,  when  I tell  you,  dearest  dear,  that  your  agony  is 
over,  and  that  I have  come  here  to  take  you  from  it,  and 
that  we  go  to  England  to  be  at  peace  and  at  rest,  I cause 
you  to  think  of  your  useful  life  laid  waste,  and  of  our 
native  France  so  wicked  to  you,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it  I 
And  if,  when  I shall  tell  you  of  my  name,  and  of  my  fa- 


44 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tlier  who  is  living*,  and  of  my  mother  who  is  dead,  you 
learn  that  I have  to  kneel  to  my  honoured  father,  and 
implore  his  pardon  for  having  never  for  his  sake  striven 
all  day  and  lain  awake  and  wept  all  night,  because  the 
love  of  my  poor  mother  hid  his  torture  from  me,  weep 
for  it,  weep  for  it  ! Weep  for  her,  then,  and  for  me  ! 
Good  gentlemen,  thank  God  ! I feel  his  sacred  tears 
upon  my  face,  and  his  sobs  strike  against  my  heart.  0, 
see  ! Thank  God  for  us,  thank  God  ! ” 

He  had  sunk  in  her  arms,  with  his  face  dropped  on 
her  breast : a sight  so  touching,  yet  so  terrible  in  the 
tremendous  wrong  and  suffering  which  had  gone  before 
it,  that  the  two  beholders  covered  their  faces. 

When  the  quiet  of  the  garret  had  been  long  undis- 
turbed, and  his  heaving  breast  and  shaken  form  had 
long  yielded  to  the  calm  that  must  fellow  all  storms — 
emblem  to  humanity,  of  the  rest  and  silence  into  which 
the  storm  called  Life  must  hush  at  last — they  came  for 
ward  to  raise  the  father  and  daughter  from  the  ground. 
He  had  gradually  drooped  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  in  a 
lethargy,  worn  out.  She  had  nestled  down  with  him, 
that  his  head  might  lie  upon  her  arm  ; and  her  hair 
drooping  over  him  curtained  him  from  the  light. 

“If,  without  disturbing  him,”  she  said,  raising  her 
hand  to  Mr.  Lorry  as  he  stooped  over  them,  after  re- 
peated blowings  of  his  nose,  “ all  could  be  arranged  for 
our  leaving  Paris  at  once,  so  that,  from  the  very  door, 
he  could  be  taken  away — ” 

“ But,  consider.  Is  he  fit  for  the  journey  ? ” asked  Mr. 
Lorry. 

“ More  fit  for  that,  I think,  than  to  remain  in  this  city, 
so  dreadful  to  him.” 

“ It  is  true,”  said  Defarge,  who  was  kneeling  to  look 
on  and  hear.  “ More  than  that:  Monsieur  Manette  is, 
for  all  reasons,  best  out  of  France.  Say,  shall  I hire  a 
carriage  and  post-horses  ? ” 

“ That's  business,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  resuming  on  the 
shortest  notice  his  methodical  manners;  “and  if  busi- 
ness is  to  be  done,  I had  better  do  it.” 

“ Then  be  so  kind,”  urged  Miss  Manette,  “ as  to  leave 
us  here.  You  see  how  composed  he  has  become,  and 
you  cannot  be  afraid  to  leave  him  with  me  now.  Why 
should  you  be  ? If  you  will  lock  the  door  to  secure  us 
from  interruption,  I do  not  doubt  that  you  will  find  him, 
when  you  come  back,  as  quiet  as  you  leave  him.  In  any 
case,  I will  take  care  of  him  until  you  return,  and  then 
we  will  remove  him  straight.” 

Both  Mr.  Lorry  and  Defarge  were  rather  disinclined  to 
this  course,  and  in  favour  of  one  of  them  remaining. 
But,  as  there  were  not  only  carriage  and  horses  to  be 
seen  to,  but  travelling  papers  ; and  as  time  pressed,  for 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES'. 


45 


tlie  day  was  drawing  to  an  end,  it  came  at  last  to  their 
hastily  dividing  the  business  that  was  necessary  to  be 
done,  and  hurrying  away  to  do  it. 

Then,  as  the  darkness  closed  in,  the  daughter  laid  her 
head  down  on  the  hard  ground  close  at  the  father’s  side, 
and  watched  him.  The  darkness  deepened  and  deep- 
ened, and  they  both  lay  quiet,  until  a light  gleamed 
through  the  chinks  in  the  wall. 

Mr.  Lorry  and  Monsieur  Defarge  had  made  all  ready 
for  the  journey,  and  had  brought  with  them,  besides 
travelling  cloaks  and  wrappers,  bread  and  meat,  wine, 
and  hot  coffee.  Monsieur  Defarge  put  this  provender, 
and  the  lamp  he  carried,  on  the  shoemaker’s  bench  (there 
was  nothing  else  in  the  garret  but  a pallet  bed),  and  he 
and  Mr.  Lorry  roused  the  captive,  and  assisted  him  to 
his  feet. 

No  human  intelligence  could  have  read  the  mysteries 
of  his  mind,  in  the  scared  blank  wonder  of  his  face. 
Whether  he  knew  what  had  happened,  whether  he  rec- 
ollected what  they  had  said  to  him,  whether  he  knew 
that  he  was  free,  were  questions  which  no  sagacity  could 
have  solved.  They  tried  speaking  to  him  ; but,  he  was 
so  confused,  and  so  very  slow  to  answer,  that  they  took 
fright  at  his  bewilderment,  and  agreed  for  the  time  to 
tamper  with  him  no  more.  He  had  a wild,,  lost  manner 
of  occasionally  clasping  his  head  in  his  hands,  that  had 
not  been  seen  in  him  before  ; yet  he  had  some  pleasure 
in  the  mere  sound  of  his  daughter’s  voice,  and  invariably 
turned  to  it  when  she  spoke. 

In  the  submissive  way  of  one  long  accustomed  to  obey 
under  coercion,  he  ate  and  drank  what  they  gave  him 
to  eat  and  drink,  and  put  on  the  cloak  and  other  wrap- 
pings that  they  gave  him  to  wear.  He  readily  responded 
to  his  daughter's  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  and 
took— and  kept — her  hand  in  both  of  his  own. 

They  began  to  descend  ; Monsieur  Defarge  going  first 
with  the  lamp,  Mr.  Lorry  closing  the  little  procession. 
They  had  not  traversed  many  steps  of  the  long  mam 
staircase  when  he  stopped,  and  stared  at  the  roof  and 
round  at  the  walls. 

“You  remember  the  place,  my  father?  You  remem- 
ber coming  up  here  ? ” 

“ What  did  you  say  ? ” 

But,  before  she  could  repeat  the  question,  he  mur- 
mured an  answer  as  if  she  had  repeated  it. 

“ Remember  ? No,  I don’t  remember.  It  was  so  very 
long  ago.” 

That  he  had  no  recollection  whatever  of  his  having 
been  brought  from  his  prison  to  that  house,  was  appa- 
rent to  them.  They  heard  him  mutter,  “ One  Hundred 
and  Five,  North  Tower ; ” and  when  he  looked  about 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


him,  it  evidently  was  for  the  strong  fortress- walls  which 
had  long  encompassed  him.  On  their  reaching  the 
court-yard,  he  instinctively  altered  his  tread,  as  being 
in  expectation  of  a drawbridge  ; and  when  there  was  no 
drawbridge,  and  he  saw  the  carriage  waiting  in  the  open 
street,  he  dropped  his  daughter’s  hand  and  clasped  his 
head  again. 

No  crowd  was  about  the  door  ; no  people  were  dis- 
cernible at  any  of  the  many  windows ; not  even  a 
chance  passer-by  was  in  the  street.  An  unnatural 
silence  and  desertion  reigned  there.  Only  one  soul  was 
to  be  seen,  and  that  was  Madame  Defarge — who  leaned 
against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw  nothing. 

The  prisoner  had  got  into  the  coach,  and  his  daughter 
had  followed  him,  when  Mr.  Lorry’s  feet  were  arrested 
on  the  step  by  his  asking,  miserably,  for  his  shoemak- 
ing tools  and  the  unfinished  shoes.  Madame  Defarge 
immediately  called  to  her  husband  that  she  would  get 
them,  and  went,  knitting,  out  of  the  lamplight,  through 
the  court-yard.  She  quickly  brought  them  down  and 
handed  them  in -and  immediately  afterwards  leaned 
against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw  nothing. 

Defarge  got  upon  the  box,  and  gave  the  word  “To 
the  Barrier  ! ” The  postilion  cracked  his  whip,  and 
they  clattered  away  under  the  feeble  over-swinging 
lamps. 

Under  the  over-swinging  lamps  — swinging  ever 
brighter  in  the  better  streets,  and  ever  dimmer  in  the 
worse — and  by  lighted  shops,  gay  crowds,  illuminated 
coffee-houses,  and  theatre  doors,  to  one  of  the  city  gates. 
Soldiers  with  lanterns,  at  the  guard-house  there.  “ Your 
papers,  travellers!”  “See  here  then,  Monsieur  the 
Officer,”  said  Defarge,  getting  down  and  taking  him 
gravely  apart,  “ these  are  the  papers  of  monsieur  inside, 
with  the  white  head.  They  were  consigned  to  me,  witi* 

him  at  the ” He  dropped  his  voice,  there  was  a fiuL 

ter  among  the  military  lanterns,  and  one  of  them  being 
handed  into  the  coach  by  an  arm  in  uniform,  the  eyes 
connected  with  the  arm  looked,  not  an  every  day  or  an 
every  night  look,  at  monsieur  with  the  white  head. 
“ It  is  well.  Forward  ! ” from  the  uniform.  “ Adieu  ! ” 
from  Defarge.  And  so,  under  a short  grove  of  feebler 
and  feebler  over-swinging  lamps,  out  under  the  great 
grove  of  stars. 

Beneath  that  arch  of  unmoved  and  eternal  lights  : 
some,  so  remote  from  this  little  earth  that  the  learned 
tell  us  it  is  doubtful  whether  their  rays  have  even  yet 
discovered  it,  as  a point  in  space  where  anything  is  suf- 
fered or  done  : the  shadows  of  the  night  were  broad  and 
black.  All  through  the  cold  and  restless  interval,  until 
dawn,  they  once  more  whispered  in  the  ears  of  Mr, 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


47 


Jurvis  Lorry — sitting  opposite  the  buried  man  who  had 
been  dug  out,  and  wondering  what  subtle  powers  were 
forever  lost  to  him,  and  what  were  capable  of  restora- 
tion — the  old  inquiry  : 

" I hope  you  care  to  be  recalled  to  life?'* 

And  the  old  answer : 

*SI  can’t  say.” 

BOOK  THE  SECOND.— THE 


GOLDEN  THREAD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Five  Years  Later. 

Tellson’s  Bank  by  Temple  Bar  was  an  old-fashioned, 
place,  even  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty.  It  was  very  small,  very  dark,  very  ugly,  very 
incommodious.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  place,  moreover, 
in  the  moral  attribute  that  the  partners  in  the  House 
were  proud  of  its  smallness,  proud  of  its  darkness,  proud 
of  its  ugliness,  proud  of  its  incommodiousness.  They 
were  even  boastful  of  its  eminence  in  those  particulars, 
and  were  fired  by  an  express  conviction  that,  if  it  were 
less  objectionable,  it  would  be  less  respectable.  This  was 
no  passive  belief,  but  an  active  weapon  which  they 
flashed  at  more  convenient  places  of  business.  Tellson’s 
(they  said)  wanted  no  elbow-room,  Tellson’s  wanted  no 
light.  Tellson’s  wanted  no  embellishment.  Noakes  and 
Co/s  might,  or  Snooks  Brothers’  might ; but  Tellson’s, 
thank  Heaven  !— 

Any  of  these  partners  would  have  disinherited  his  son 
on  the  question  of  rebuilding  Tellson’s,  In  this  respect 
the  House  was  much  on  a par  with  the  Country  ; which 
did  very  often  disinherit  its  sons  for  suggesting  improve- 
ments in  laws  and  customs  that  had  long  been  highly 
objectionable,  but  were  only  the  more  respectable. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  pass,  that  Tellson’s  was  the  tri- 
umphant perfection  of  inconvenience.  After  bursting 
open  a door  of  idiotic  obstinacy  with  a weak  rattle  in  its 
throat,  you  fell  into  Tellson’s  down  two  steps,  and  came 
to  your  senses  in  a miserable  little  shop,  with  two  little 


48 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


counters,  where  the  oldest  of  men  made  your  cheque 
shake  as  if  the  wind  rustled  it,  while  they  examined  the 
signature  by  the  dingiest  of  windows,  which  were  always 
under  a shower-bath  of  mud  from  Fleet-street,  and  which 
were  made  the  dingier  by  their  own  iron  bars  proper,  and 
the  heavy  shadow  of  Temple  Bar.  If  your  business  neces- 
sitated your  seeing  “ the  House,”  you  were  put  into  a 
species  of  Condemned  Hole  at  the  back,  where  you  med- 
itated on  a misspent  life,  until  the  House  came  with  its 
hands  in  its  pockets,  and  you  could  hardly  blink  at  it  in 
the  dismal  twilight.  Your  money  came  out  of,  or  went 
into,  wormy  old  wooden  drawers,  particles  of  which  flew 
up  your  nose  and  down  your  throat  when  they  were 
opened  and  shut.  Your  bank-notes  had  a musty  odour, 
as  if  they  were  fast  decomposing  into  rags  again.  Your 
plate  was  stowed  away  among  the  neigbouring  cesspools, 
and  evil  communications  corrupted  its  good  polish  in  a 
day  or  two.  Your  deeds  got  into  extemporised  strong- 
rooms made  of  kitchens  and  sculleries,  and  fretted  all  the 
fat  out  of  their  parchments  into  the  banking-house  air. 
Your  lighter  boxes  of  family  papers  went  up-stairs  into 
a Barmecide  room,  that  always  had  a great  dining-table 
in  it  and  never  had  a dinner,  and  where,  even  in  the  year 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty,  the  first  letters 
written  to  you  by  your  old  love,  or  by  your  little  chil- 
dren, were  but  newly  released  from  the  horror  of  being 
ogled  through  the  window’s,  by  tho  heads  exposed  on 
Temple  Bar  with  an  insensate  brutality  and  ferocity  wor- 
thy of  Abyssinia  or  Ashantee. 

But  indeed,  at  that  time,  putting  to  death  was  & recipe 
much  in  vogue  with  all  trades  and  ^professions,  and  not 
ie^st  of  all  with  Tellson’s.  Death  is  Nature's  remedy  for 
all  things*  and  why  not  Legislation’s  ? Accordingly,  the 
forger  wTas  put  to  Death  ; the  utterer  of  a bad  note  wTas 
put  to  Death  ; the  unlawful  opener  of  a letter  was  put 
to  Death  ; the  purloiner  of  forty  shillings  and  sixpence 
was  put  to  Death  ; the  holder  of  a horse  at  Tellson’s 
door  who  made  off  with  it,  was  put  to  Death  ; the  coiner 
of  a bad  shilling  was  put  to  Death  ; the  sounders  of 
three-fourths  of  the  notes  in  the  whole  gamut  of  Crime, 
were  put  to  Death.  Not  that  it  did  the  least  good  in  the 
Way  of  prevention — it  might  almost  have  been  worth  re- 
marking that  the  fact  was  exactly  the  reverse — but,  it 
cleared  off  (as  to  this  world)  the  trouble  of  each  particu- 
lar case,  and  left  nothing  else  connected  with  it  to  be 
looked  after.  Thus,  TellsoiTs,  in  its  day,  like  greater 
places  of  business,  its  contemporaries,  had  taken  so  many 
lives,  that,  if  the  heads  laid  low  before  it  had  been 
ranged  on  Temple  Bar  instead  of  being  privately  disposed 
of,  they  would  probably  have  excluded  what  little  light 
the  ground  floor  had,  in  a rather  significant  manner. 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIESc 


49 


Cramped  in  all  kinds  of  dim  cupboards  and  hutches  at 
Tellson’s,  the  oldest  of  men  carried  on  the  business 
gravely.  When  they  took  a young  man  into  Tellson’s 
London  house,  they  hid  him  somewhere  till  he  was  old. 
They  kept  him  in  a dark  place,  like  a cheese,  until  he 
had  the  full  Tellson  flavour  and  blue-mould  upon  him. 
Then  only  was  he  permitted  to  be  seen,  spectaculaily 
poring  over  large  books,  and  casting  his  breeches  and 
gaiters  into  the  general  weight  of  the  establishment. 

Outside  Tellson’s — never  by  any  means  in  it,  unless 
called  in— was  an  odd- job-man,  an  occasional  porter  and 
messenger,  who  served  as  the  live  sign  of  the  house.  He 
was  never  absent  during  business  hours,  unless  upon  an 
errand,  and  then  he  was  represented  by  his  son  ; a grisly 
urchin  of  twelve,  who  was  his  express  image.  People 
understood  that  Teilson’s,  in  a stately  way,  tolerated  the 
odd- job-man.  The  House  had  always  tolerated  some 
person  in  that  capacity,  and  time  and  tide  had  drifted 
this  person  to  the  post.  His  surname  was  Cruncher, 
and  on  the  youthful  occasion  of  his  renouncing  by  proxy 
the  works  of  darkness,  in  the  easterly  parish  church  of 
Houndsditch,  he  had  received  the  added  appellation  of 
Jerry 

The  scene,  was  Mr.  Cruncher’s  private  lodging  in 
Hanging-sword-alley,  Whitefriars  ; the  time,  half-past 
seven  of  the  clock  on  a windy  March  morning.  Anno 
Domini  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty.  (Mr.  Cruncher 
himself  always  spoke  of  the  year  of  our  Lord  as  Anna 
Dominoes  : apparently  under  the  impression  that  the 
Christian  era  dated  from  the  invention  of  a popular 
game,  by  a lady  who  had  bestowed  her  name  upon  it.) 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  apartments  were  not  in  a savoury 
neighbourhood,  and  were  but  two  in  number,  even  if  a 
closet  with  a single  pane  of  glass  in  it  might  be  counted 
as  one.  But,  they  were  very  decently  kept.  Early  as 
it  was,  on  the  windy  March  morning,  the  room  in  which 
he  lay  abed  was  already  scrubbed  throughout  ; and  be- 
tween the  cups  and  saucers  arranged  for  breakfast,  and 
the  lumbering  deal  table,  a very  clean  white  cloth  was 
spread. 

Mr.  Cruncher  reposed  under  a patchwork  counter- 
pane, like  a Harlequin  at  home.  At  first,  he  slept  heavily, 
hut,  by  degrees,  began  to  roll  and  surge  in  bed,  until  be 
rose  above  the  surface,  with  his  spiky  hair  looking  as  if 
it  must  tear  the  sheets  to  ribbons.  At  which  juncture, 
he  exclaimed,  in  a voice  of  dire  exasperation  : 

“ Bust  me,  if  she  ain’t  at  it  agin  ! ” 

A woman,  of  orderly  and  industrious  appearance  rose 
from  her  knees  in  a comer,  with  sufficient  haste  and  trep* 
idation  to  show  that  she  was  the  person  referred  to. 

-C  VOL.ii 


50 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ What !”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  out  of  bed  for  a 
boot.  “ You're  at  it  agin,  are  you  ?” 

After  hailing  the  morn  with  this  second  salutation,  he 
threw  a boot  at  the  woman  as  a third.  It  was  a very- 
muddy  boot,  and  may  introduce  the  odd  circumstance 
connected  with  Mr.  Cruncher's  domestic  economy,  that, 
whereas  he  often  came  home  after  banking  hours  with 
clean  boots,  he  often  got  up  next  morning  to  find  the 
same  boots  covered  with  clay. 

“What,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  varying  his  apostrophe 
after  missing  his  mark — “ what  are  you  up  to,  Aggera- 
wayter  ? ” 

“ I was  only  saying  my  prayers.” 

“ Saying  your  prayers.  You're  a nice  woman  1 What 
do  you  mean  by  flopping  yourself  down  and  praying  agii* 
me?” 

“I  was  not  praying  against  you  ; I was  praying  for 
you.” 

“ You  weren't.  And  if  you  vrere,  I won't  be  took  the 
liberty  with.  Here  ! your  mother's  a nice  woman, 
young  Jerry,  going  a praying  agin  your  father's  pros 
perity.  You've  got  a dutiful  mother,  you  have,  my  son 
You've  got  a religious  mother,  you  have,  my  boy  : going 
and  flopping  herself  down,  and  praying  that  the  bread- 
and-butter  may  be  snatched  out  of  the  mouth  of  her 
only  child  ! ” 

Master  Cruncher  (who  was  in  his  shirt)  took  this  very 
ill,  and,  turning  to  his  mother,  strongly  deprecated  any 
praying  away  of  his  personal  board. 

“And  what  do  you  suppose,  you  conceited  female,” 
said  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  nnconscious  inconsistency,  “that 
the  worth  of  your  prayers  may  be  ? Name  the  price  that 
you  put  your  prayers  at?” 

“They  only  come  from  the  heart,  Jerry.  They  are 
worth  no  more  than  that.” 

“ Worth  no  more  than  that,”  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher. 
“ They  ain't  worth  much,  then.  Whether  or  no,  I won't 
be  prayed  agin,  I tell  you.  I can't  afford  it.  I'm  not  a 
going  to  be  made  unlucky  by  your  sneaking.  If  you  must 
go  flopping  yourself  down,  flop  in  favour  of  your  husband 
and  child,  and  not  in  opposition  to  'em.  If  I had  had 
any  but  a unnat'ral  wife,  and  this  poor  boy  had  had  any 
but  a unnat'ral  mother,  I might  have  made  some  money 
last  week,  instead  of  being  counterprayed  and  counter- 
mined and  religiously  circumwented  into  the  worst  of 
luck.  Bu-u-ust  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  all  this 
time  had  been  putting  on  his  clothes,  “if  I ain't,  what 
with  piety  and  one  blowed  thing  and  another,  been 
choused  this  last  week  into  as  bad  luck  as  ever  a poor 
devil  of  a honest  tradesman  met  with  ! Young  Jerry, 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


51 


dless  yourself,  my  boy,  and  while  I clean  my  boots  keep 
a eye  upon  your  mother  now  and  then,  and  if  you  see  any 
signs  of  more  flopping,  give  me  a call.  For,  I tell  you,” 
here  he  addressed  his  wife  once  more,  I won’t  be  gone 
agin,  in  this  manner.  I am  as  rickety  as  a hackney 
coach,  Fm  as  sleepy  as  laudanum,  my  lines  is  strained 
to  that  degree  that  I shouldn’t  know,  if  it  wasn’t  for  the 
pain  in  ’em,  which  was  me  and  which  somebody  else, 
yet  I’m  none  the  better  for  it  in  pocket  ; and  it’s  my  sus- 
picion that  you’ve  been  at  it  from  morning  to  night  to 
prevent  me  from  being  the  better  for  it  in  pocket,  and  I 
won’t  put  up  with  it,  Aggerawayter,  and  what  do  you 
say  now  ! ” 

Growling,  in  addition,  such  phrases  as  “ Ah  ! yes  I 
You’re  religious,  too.  You  wouldn’t  put  yourself  in  op- 
position to  the  interests  of  your  husband  and  child, 
would  you  ? Not  you  ! ” and  throwing  off  other  sarcas- 
tic sparks  from  the  whirling  grindstone  of  his  indigna- 
tion, Mr.  Cruncher  betook  himself  to  his  boot-cleaning 
and  his  general  preparations  for  business.  In  the  mean- 
time, his  son,  wrhose  head  wss  garnished  with  tenderer 
spikes,  and  whose  young  eyes  stood  close  by  one  another, 
as  his  father’s  did,  kept  the  required  watch  upon  his 
mother.  He  greatly  disturbed  that  poor  woman  at  in- 
tervals, by  darting  out  of  his  sleeping  closet,  where  he 
made  his  toilet,  with  a suppressed  cry  of  “ You  are  go- 
ing to  flop,  mother. — Halloa,  father  ! ” and,  after  rais- 
ing this  fictitious  alarm,  darting  in  again  with  an  undu  = 
tiful  grin. 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  temper  was  not  at  all  improved  when 
he  came  to  his  breakfast.  He  resented  Mrs.  Cruncher’s 
saying  Grace  with  particular  animosity. 

“ Now,  Aggerawayter  ! What  are  you  up  to  ? At  it 
agin  ? ” 

His  wife  explained  that  she  had  merely  “ asked  a 
blessing.  ” 

“ Don’t  do  it !”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  about,  as  if 
he  rather  expected  to  see  the  loaf  disappear  under  the 
efficacy  of  his  wife’s  petitions.  “ I ain’t  a going  to  be 
blest  out  of  house  and  home.  I won’t  have  my  wittles 
blest  off  my  table.  Keep  still  I ” 

Exceedingly  red-eyed  and  grim,  as  if  he  had  been  up 
all  night  at  a party  which  had  taken  anything  but  a con- 
vivial turn,  Jerry  Cruncher  worried  his  breakfast  rather 
than  ate  it,  growling  over  it  like  any  four-footed  inmate 
of  a menagerie.  Towards  nine  o’clock  he  smoothed  hm 
ruffled  aspect,  and,  presenting  as  respectable  and  busi 
ness-like  an  exterior  as  he  could  overlay  his  natural  self 
with,  issued  forth  to  the  occupation  of  the  day. 

It  could  scarcely  be  called  a trade,  in  spite  of  his  fa- 
vourite description  of  himself  as  “ a honest  tradesman**’ 


52 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


His  stock  consisted  of  a wooden  stool,  made  out  of  a 
broken-backed  chair  cut  down,  which  stool  young  Jerry, 
walking  at  his  father’s  side,  carried  every  morning  to 
beneath  the  banking-house  window  that  was  nearest 
Temple  Bar  : where,  with  the  addition  of  the  first  hand- 
ful of  straw  that  could  be  gleaned  from  any  passing 
vehicle  to  keep  the  cold  and  wet  from  the  odd  job-man’s 
feet,  it  formed  the  encampment  for  the  day.  On  this 
post  of  his,  Mr.  Cruncher  was  as  well  known  to  Fleet- 
street  and  the  Temple,  as  the  Bar  itself-— and  was  almost 
as  ill -looking. 

Encamped  at  a quarter  before  nine,  in  good  time  to 
touch  his  three-cornered  hat  to  the  oldest  of  men  as  they 
passed  in  to  Tellson’s,  Jerry  took  up  his  station  on  this 
windy  March  morning,  with  Young  Jerry  standing  by 
him,  when  not  engaged  in  making  forays  through  the 
Bar,  to  inflict  bodily  and  mental  injuries  of  an  acute  de- 
scription on  passing  boys  who  were  small  enough  for 
his  amiable  purpose.  Father  and  son,  extremely  like 
each  other,  looking  silently  on  at  the  morning  traffic  in 
Fleet-street,  with  their  two  heads  as  near  to  one  another 
as  the  two  eyes  of  each  were,  bore  a considerable  resem- 
blance to  a pair  of  monkeys.  The  resemblance  was  not 
lessened  by  the  accidental  circumstance,  that  the  ma- 
ture Jerry  bit  and  spat  out  straw,  while  the  twinkling 
eyes  of  the  youthful  Jerry  were  as  restlessly  watchful  of 
him  as  of  everything  else  in  Fleet-street. 

The  head  of  one  of  the  regular  in-door  messengers  at- 
tached to  Tellson’s  establishment  was  put  through  the 
door,  and  the  word  was  given  : 

“ Porter  wanted  ! ” 

“ Hooray,  father  ! Here’s  an  early  job  to  begin  with  ! ” 

Having  thus  given  his  parent  Cod  speed,  Young  Jerry 
seated  himself  on  the  stool,  entered  on  his  reversionary 
interest  in  the  straw  his  father  had  been  chewing,  and 
cogitated. 

“ Al-ways  rusty  ! His  fingers  is  al-ways  rusty  ! ” 
muttered  Young  Jerry.  “ Where  does  my  father  get  all 
that  iron  rust  from  ? He  don’t  get  no  iron  rust  here  ! ” 


CHAPTER  II. 

A Sight. 

cu  You  know  the  Old  Bailey  well,  no  doubt  ? ” said  one  of 
the  oldest  of  clerks  to  Jerry  the  messenger. 

“ Ye-es,  sir,”  returned  Jerry,  in  something  of  a dogged 
manner.  “I  do  know  the  Bailey.” 

“ Just  so.  And  you  know  Mr."  Lorry  ? ” 


MESSRS.  CRUNCHER  AND  SON. 

—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  53. 


54 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ I know  Mr.  Lorry,  sir,  muck  better  than  I know  the 
Bailey.  Much  better, ” said  Jerry,  not  unlike  a reluc- 
tant witness  at  the  establishment  in  question,  “than  I, 
as  a honest  tradesman,  wish  to  know  the  Bailey.” 

“ Very  well.  Find  the  door  where  the  witnesses  go  in, 
and  show  the  doorkeeper  this  note  for  Mr.  Lorry.  He 
will  then  let  you  in.” 

“ Into  the  court,  sir?  99 

“ Into  the  court.” 

Mr.  Cruncher's  eyes  seemed  to  get  a little  closer  to  one 
another,  and  to  interchange  the  inquiry,  “What  do  you 
think  of  this?” 

“Ami  to  wait  in  the  court,  sir?  ” he  asked,  as  the  re- 
mit of  that  conference. 

,,  “lam  goingtotell  you.  The  doorkeeper  will  pass 
the  note  to  Mr.  Lorry,  and  do  you  make  any  gesture 
that  will  attract  Mr.  Lorry's  attention,  and  show  him 
where  you  stand.  Then  what  you  have  to  do,  is,  to  re- 
main there  until  he  wants  you.” 

“ Is  that  all,  sir  ? ” 

“ That’s  all.  He  wishes  to  have  a messenger  at  hand. 
This  is  to  tell  him  you  are  there." 

As  the  ancient  clerk  deliberately  folded  and  super- 
scribed the  note,  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  surveying  him  ia 
silence  until  he  came  to  the  blotting-paper  stage,  re- 
marked : 

“I  suppose  they'll  be  trying  Forgeries  this  morning?” 

“ Treason  ! ” 

“ That's  quartering,”  said  Jerry.  “Barbarous  !” 

“ It  is  the  law,”  remarked  the  ancient  clerk  turning 
his  surprised  spectacles  upon  him.  “ It  is  the  law.” 

“ It’s  hard  in  the  law  to  spile  a man,  I think.  It's  hard 
enough  to  kill  him,  but  it's  wery  hard  to  spile  him,  sir.” 

“ Not  at  all,”  returned  the  ancient  clerk.  “ Speak  well 
of  the  law.  Take  care  of  your  chest  and  voice,  my  good 
friend,  and  leave  the  law  to  take  care  of  itself.  I give 
you  that  advice.  ” 

“ It's  the  damp,  sir,  what  settles  on  my  chest  and 
voice,"  said  Jerry.  “I  leave  you  to  judge  what  a damp 
way  of  earning  a living  mine  is.” 

“Well,  well,”  said  the  old  clerk:  “we  all  have  our 
various  ways  of  gaining  a livelihood.  Some  of  us  have 
damp  ways,  and  some  of  us  nave  dry  ways.  Here  is 
the  letter.  Go  along.” 

Jerry  took  the  letter,  and,  remarking  to  himself  with 
less  internal  deference,  than  he  made  an  outward  show 
of,  “ You  are  a lean  old  one  too,”  made  his  bow,  in 
formed  his  son,  in  passing,  of  his  destination,  and  went 
his  way. 

They  hanged  at  Tyburn,  in  those  days,  so  the  street 
outside  Newgate  had  not  obtained  one  infamous  notoriety 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


55 


that  has  since  attached  to  it.  But  the  gaol  was  a vile 
place,  in  which  most  kinds  of  debauchery  and  villany 
were  practised,  and  where  dire  diseases  were  bred,  that 
came  into  court  with  the  prisoners,  and  sometimes  rushed 
straight  from  the  dock  at  my  Lord  Chief  Justice  himself, 
and  pulled  him  off  the  bench.  It  had  more  than  once 
happened,  that  the  judge  in  the  black  cap  pronounced 
his  own  doom  as  certainly  as  the  prisoner’s,  and  even 
died  before  him.  For  the  rest,  the  Old  Bailey  was 
famous  as  a kind  of  deadly  inn-yard,  from  which  pale 
travellers  set  out  continually,  in  carts  and  coaches,  on  & 
violent  passage  into  the  other  world  : traversing  some 
two  miles  and  a half  of  public  street  and  road,  and 
shaming  few  good  citizens,  if  any.  So  powerful  is  use, 
and  so  desirable  to  be  good  use  in  the  beginning.  It  was 
famous,  too,  for  the  pillory,  a wise  old  institution,  that 
inflicted  a punishment  of  which  no  one  could  foresee  the 
extent ; also,  for  the  whipping-post,  another  dear  old 
institution,  very  humanising  and  softening  to  behold  in 
action;  also,  for  extensive  transactions  in  blood-money,  an- 
other fragment  of  ancestral  wisdom,  systematically  lead- 
ing to  the  most  frightful  mercenary  crimes  that  could  be 
committed  under  heaven.  Altogether,  the  Old  Bailey,  a^ 
that  date,  was  a choice  illustration  of  the  precept,  that 
“ Whatever  is  is  right ; ” an  aphorism  that  would  be  as 
final  as  it  is  lazy,  did  it  not  include  the  troublesome  con, 
sequence,  that  nothing  that  ever  was,  was  wrong. 

Making  his  way  through  the  tainted  crowd,  dispersed 
up  and  down  this  hideous  scene  of  action,  with  the  skill 
of  a man  accustomed  to  make  his  way  quietly,  the  mes- 
senger found  out  the  door  he  sought,  and  handed  in  his 
letter  through  a trap  in  it.  For,  people  then  paid  to  see 
the  play  at  the  Old  Bailey,  just  as  they  paid  to  see  the 
play  in  Bedlam — only  the  former  entertainment  was 
much  the  dearer.  Therefore,  all  the  Old  Bailey  doors 
were  well  guarded — except,  indeed,  the  social  doors 
by  which  the  criminals  got  there,  and  those  were 
always  left  wide  open. 

After  some  delay  and  demur,  the  door  grudgingly 
turned  on  its  hinges  a very  little  way,  and  allowed  Mr. 
Jerry  Cruncher  to  squeeze  himself  into  court. 

“ Wliat’s  on  ? ” he  asked  in  a whipser,  of  the  man  he 
found  himself  next  to. 

“ Nothing  yet.” 

“ What’s  coming  on  ? ” 

“The  Treason  case.” 

“ The  quartering  one,  eh  V* 

“Ah!”  returned  the  man  with  a relish;  “he’ll  be 
drawn  on  a hurdle  to  be  half  hanged,  and  then  he’ll  be 
taken  down  and  sliced  before  his  own  face,  and  then  his 


68 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


inside  will  be  taken  out  and  burnt  while  lie  looks  on, 
and  then  his  head  will  be  chopped  off,  and  he’ll  be  cut 
into  quarters.  That’s  the  sentence.” 

“If  he’s  found  Guilty,  you  mean  to  say?”  Jerry 
added,  by  way  of  proviso. 

**  Oh  1 they’ll  find  him  Guilty,”  said  the  other.  44  Don’t 
you  be  afraid  of  that.” 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  attention  was  here  diverted  to  the 
doorkeeper,  whom  he  saw  making  his  way  to  Mr.  Lorry, 
with  the  note  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  a table, 
among  the  gentlemen  in  wigs  : not  far  from  a wigged 
gentleman,  the  prisoner’s  counsel,  who  had  a great  bun- 
dle of  papers  before  him  ; and  nearly  opposite  another 
wigged  gentleman  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whose 
whole  attention,  when  Mr.  Cruncher  looked  at  him  then 
or  afterwards,  seemed  to  be  concentrated  on  the  ceiling 
of  the  court.  After  some  gruff  coughing  and  rubbing  of 
his  chin  and  signing  with  his  hand,  Jerry  attra  d the 
notice  of  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  stood  up  to  look  for  him, 
and  who  quietly  nodded,  and  sat  down  again. 

“ What’s  lie  got  to  do  with  the  case  ?”  asked  the  man 
he  had  spoken  with. 

“ Blest  if  I know,”  said  Jerry. 

“ What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it,  then,  if  a person 
may  inquire  ? ” 

“ Blest  if  I know  that  either,”  said  Jerry. 

The  entrance  of  the  Judge,  and  a consequent  great 
stir  and  settling-down  in  the  court,  stopped  the  dialogue. 
Presently,  the  dock  became  the  central  point  of  interest. 
T wo  gaolers,  who  had  been  standing  there,  went  out, 
and  the  prisoner  was  brought  in,  and  put  to  the  bar. 

Everybody  present,  except  the  one  wigged  gentleman 
who  looked  at  the  ceiling,  stared  at  him.  All  the  human 
breath  in  the  place,  rolled  at  him,  like  a sea,  or  a wind, 
or  a fire.  Eager  faces  strained  round  pillars  and  corners, 
to  get  a sight  of  him  ; spectators  in  back  rows  stood  up, 
not  to  miss  a hair  of  him  ; people  on  the  floor  of  the 
court,  laid  their  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  people 
before  them,  to  help  themselves,  at  anybody’s  cost,  to  a 
view  of  him — stood  a-tiptoe,  got  upon  ledges,  stood  upon 
next  to  nothing,  to  see  every  inch  of  him.  Conspicuous 
among  these  latter,  like  an  animated  bit  of  the  spiked 
wall  of  Newgate,  Jerry  stood  ; aiming  at  the  prisoner 
the  beery  breath  of  a whet  he  had  taken  as  he  came 
along,  and  discharging  it  to  mingle  with  the  waves  of 
other  beer,  and  gin,  and  tea,  and  coffee,  and  what  not, 
that  flowed  at  him,  and  already  broke  upon  the  great 
windows  behind  him  in  an  impure  mist  and  rain. 

The  object  of  all  this  staring  and  blaring,  was  a young 
man  of  about  five-and-tweuty,  well-grown  and  well -look- 
ing, with  a sunburnt  cheek  and  a dark  eye.  His  condi- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


57 


tion  was  that  of  a young  gentleman.  He  was  plainly 
dressed  in  black,  or  very  dark  grey,  and  his  hair,  which 
was  long  and  dark,  was  gathered  in  a ribbon  at  the  back 
of  his  neck  : more  to  be  out  of  his  way  than  for  orna- 
ment. As  an  emotion  of  the  mind  will  express  itself 
through  any  covering  of  the  body,  so  the  paleness  which 
his  situation  engendered  came  through  the  brown  on  his 
cheek,  showing  the  soul  to  be  stronger  than  the  sun. 
He  was  otherwise  quite  self-possessed,  bowed  to  the 
Judge,  and  stood  quiet. 

The  sort  of  interest  with  which  this  man  was  stared 
and  breathed  at,  was  not  a sort  that  elevated  humanity. 
Had  he  stood  in  peril  of  a less  horrible  sentence — had 
there  been  a chance  of  any  one  of  its  savage  details 
being  spared— by  just  so  much  would  he  have  lost  in  his 
fascination.  The  form  that  was  to  be  doomed  to  be  so 
shamefully  mangled,  was  the  sight ; the  immortal  crea- 
ture that  was  to  be  so  butchered  and  torn  asunder, 
yielded  the  sensation.  Whatever  gloss  the  various  spec- 
tators put  upon  the  interest,  according  to  their  several 
arts  and  powers  of  self-deceit,  the  interest  was,  at  the 
root  of  it,  Ogreish. 

Silence  in  the  court ! Charles  Darnay  had  yesterday 
pleaded  Not  Guilty  to  an  indictment  denouncing  him 
(with  infinite  jingle  and  jangle)  for  that  he  was  a false 
traitor  to  our  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth, 
prince,  our  Lord  the  King,  by  reason  of  his  having,  cn 
divers  occasions,  and  by  divers  means  and  ways,  assisted 
Lewis,  the  French  King,  in  his  wars  against  our  said 
serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  foYth  ; that  was  to 
say,  by  coming  and  going  between  the  dominions  of  our 
said  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth,  and  those 
of  the  said  French  Lewis,  and  wickedly,  falsely,  traitor- 
ously, and  otherwise  evil-adverbiously,  revealing  to  the 
said  French  Lewis  what  forces  our  said  serene,  illus- 
trious, excellent,  and  so  forth,  had  in  preparation  to 
send  to  Canada  and  North  America.  This  much,  Jerry', 
with  his  head  becoming  more  and  more  spiky  as  the  law 
terms  bristled  it,  made  out  with  huge  satisfaction,  and 
so  arrived  circuitously  at  the  understanding  that  the 
aforesaid,  and  over  and  over  again  aforesaid,  Charles 
Darnay,  stood  there  before  him  upon  his  trial  ; that  the 
jury  were  swearing  in  ; and  that  Mr.  Attorney-General 
was  making  ready  to  speak. 

The  accused,  who  was  (and  who  knew  he  was)  being 
mentally  hanged,  beheaded,  and  quartered,  by  everybody 
there,  neither  flinched  from  the  situation,  nor  assumed 
any  theatrical  air  in  it.  He  was  quiet  and  attentive  ; 
watched  the  opening  proceedings  with  a grave  interest ; 
and  stood  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  slab  of  wood  be* 
fore  him,  so  composedly,  that  they  Lad  not  displaced  a 


58 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


leaf  of  tlie  herbs  with  which  it  was  strewn.  The  court 
was  all  bestrewn  with  herbs  and  sprinkled  with  vinegar, 
as  a precaution  against  gaol  air  and  gaol  fever. 

Over  the  prisoner's  head,  there  was  a mirror,  to  throw 
the  light  down  upon  him.  Crowds  of  the  wicked  and 
the  wretched  had  been  reflected  in  it,  and  had  passed 
from  its  surface  and  this  earth's  together.  Haunted  in  a 
most  ghastly  manner  that  abominable  place  would  have 
been,  if  the  glass  could  ever  have  rendered  back  its  re- 
flexions, as  the  ocean  is  one  day  to  give  up  its  dead. 
Some  passing  thought  of  the  infamy  and  disgrace  for 
which  it  had  been  reserved,  may  have  struck  the  prison, 
er's  mind.  Be  that  as  it  may,  a change  in  his  position 
making  him  conscious  of  a bar  of  light  across  his  face, 
he  looked  up  ; and  when  he  saw  the  glass  his  face 
flushed,  and  his  right  hand  pushed  the  herbs  away. 

It  happened  that  the  action  turned  his  face  to  that  side 
of  the  court  which  was  on  his  left.  About  on  a level 
with  his  eyes,  there  sat  in  that  corner  of  the  Judge's 
bench,  two  persons  upon  whom  his  look  immediately 
rested  ; so  immediately,  and  so  much  to  the  changing  of 
his  aspect,  that  all  the  eyes  that  were  turned  upon  him, 
turned  to  them. 

The  spectators  saw  in  the  two  figures,  a young  lady 
little  more  than  twenty,  and  a gentleman  who  is  evi- 
dently her  father  ; a man  of  a very  remarkable  appear- 
ance in  respect  of  the  absolute  whiteness  of  his  hair,  and 
a certain  indescribable  intensity  of  face  : not  of  an  active 
kind,  but  ponderjng  and  self-communing.  When  this 
expression  was  upon  him,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  old  ; 
but,  when  it  was  stirred  and  broken  up — as  it  was  now, 
in  a moment,  on  his  speaking  to  his  daughter — he  became 
a handsome  man,  not  past  the  prime  of  life. 

His  daughter  had  one  of  her  hands  drawn  through  his 
arm,  as  she  sat  by  him,  and  the  other  pressed  upon  it. 
She  had  drawn  close  to  him,  in  her  dread  of  the  scene, 
and  in  her  pity  for  the  prisoner.  Her  forehead  had  been 
strikingly  expressive  of  an  engrossing  terror  and  com- 
passion that  saw  nothing  but  the  peril  of  the  accused. 
This  had  been  so  very  noticeable,  so  very  powerfully  and 
naturally  shown,  that  starers  who  had  had  no  pity  for 
him  were  touched  by  her  ; and  the  whisper  went  about, 

Who  are  they  ? " 

Jerry  the  messenger,  who  had  made  his  own  observa^ 
tions  in  his  own  manner,  and  who  had  been  sucking  the 
rust  oft  his  fingers,  in  his  absorption,  stretched  his  neck 
to  hear  who  they  were.  The  crowd  about  him  had 
pressed  and  passed  the  inquiry  on  to  the  nearest  attend- 
ant, and  from  him  it  had  been  more  slowly  pressed  and 
passed  back  ; at  last  it  got  to  Jerry  ; 

“ Witnesses." 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


59 


“ For  whicli  side  ? 

“ Against.” 

“ Against  what  side  ?” 

“ The  prisoner’s.” 

The  Judge,  whose  eyes  had  gone  in  the  general  direc- 
tion, recalled  them,  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  looked 
steadily  at  the  man  whose  life  was  in  his  hand,  as  Mr 
Attorney-General  rose  to  spin  the  rope,  grind  the  axe* 
and  hammer  the  nails  into  the  scaffold. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A Disappointment. 

Me.  Attorney  General  had  to  inform  the  jury,  that 
the  prisoner  before  them,  though  young  in  years,  was 
£>ld  in  the  treasonable  practices  which  claimed  the  forfeit 
of  his  life.  That  this  correspondence  with  the  public  ene- 
my was  not  a correspondence  of  to-day,  or  of  yesterday, 
or  even  of  last  year,  or  of  the  year  before.  That,  it  was  cer- 
tain the  prisoner  had,  for  longer  than  that, been  in  the  habit 
of  passing  and  repassing  between  France  and  England,  on 
secret  business  of  which  he  could  give  no  honest  account. 
That,  if  it  were  in  the  nature  of  traitorous  ways  to  thrive 
(which  happily  it  never  was),  the  real  wickedness  and  guilt 
of  his  business  might  have  remained  undiscovered.  That 
Providence,  however,  had  put  it  into  the  heart  of  a per- 
son who  was  beyond  fear  and  beyond  reproach,  to  ferret 
out  the  nature  of  the  prisoner’s  schemes,  and,  struck 
with  horror,  to  disclose  them  to  his  Majesty’s  Chief  Secre- 
tary of  State  and  most  honourable  Privy  Council.  That, 
this  patriot  would  be  produced  before  them.  That,  his 
position  and  attitude  were,  on  the  whole,  sublime. 
That,  he  had  been  the  prisoner’s  friend,  but,  at  once  in 
an  auspicious  and  an  evil  hour  detecting  his  infamy,  had 
resolved  to  immolate  the  traitor  he  could  no  longer  cher- 
ish in  his  bosom,  on  the  sacred  altar  of  his  country. 
That,  if  statues  were  decreed  in  Britain,  as  in  ancient 
Greece  and  Rome,  to  public  benefactors,  this  shining 
citizen  would  assuredly  have  had  one.  That,  as 
they  were  not  so  decreed,  he  probably  would  not  have 
one.  That,  Virtue,  as  had  been  observed  by  the 
poets  (in  many  passages  which  he  well  knew  the  jury 
would  have,  word  for  word,  at  the  tips  of  their  tongues  ; 
whereat  the  jury’s  countenances  displayed  a guilty  con- 
sciousness that  they  knew  nothing  about  the  passages), 
was  in  a manner  contagious  ; more  especially  the  bright 
virtue  known  as  patriotism,  or  love  of  country.  That, 
the  lofty  example  of  this  immaculate  and  unimpeacha- 
ble witness  for  the  Crown,  to  refer  to  whom  however  un- 
worthily was  an  honour,  had  communicated  itself  to  the 


60 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


prisoner's  servant,  and  liad  engendered  in  liim  a holy  de- 
termination to  examine  his  master’s  table-drawers  and 
pockets,  and  secrete  his  papers.  That,  lie  (Mr.  Attor- 
ney-General) was  prepared  to  hear  some  disparagement 
attempted  of  this  admirable  servant  ; but  that,  in  a gen- 
eral way,  he  preferred  him  to  his  (Mr.  Attorn  ey-Gener- 
&Fs)  brothers  and  sisters,  and  honoured  him  more  than 
his  (Mr.  Attorney-General’s)  father  and  mother.  That, 
he  called  with  confidence  on  the  jury  to  come  and  do 
likewise.  That,  the  evidence  of  these  two  witnesses, 
coupled  with  the  documents  of  their  discovering  that 
would  be  produced,  would  show  the  prisoner  to  have  been 
furnished  with  lists  of  his  Majesty’s  forces,  and  of  their 
disposition  and  preparation,  both  by  sea  and  land,  and 
would  leave  no  doubt  that  he  had  habitually  conveyed 
such  information  to  a hostile  power.  That,  these  lists 
could  not  be  proved  to  be  in'  the  prisoner’s  handwriting ; 
but  that  it  was  all  the  same  ; that,  indeed,  it  was  rather 
the  better  for  the  prosecution,  as  showing  the  prisoner 
to  he  artful  in  his  precautions.  That,  the  proof  would 
go  back  five  years,  and  would  show  the  prisoner  already 
engaged  in  these  pernicious  missions,  within  a few 
weeks  before  the  date  of  the  very  first  action  fought  be- 
tween the  British  troops  and  the  Americans.  That,  for 
these  reasons  the  jury, being  a loyal  jury  (as  he  knew  they 
v/ere),  and  being  a responsible  jury  (as  they  knew  they 
were),  must  positively  find  the  prisoner  Guilty,  and  make 
an  end  of  him,  whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  That,  they 
never  could  lay  their  heads  upon  their  pillows  ; that, 
they  could  never  tolerate  the  idea  of  their  wives  laying 
their  heads  upon  their  pillows  ; that,  they  never  could 
endure  the  notion  of  their  children  laying  their  heads 
upon  their  pillows  ; in  short,  that  there  never  more  could 
be,’  for  them  or  theirs,  any  laying  of  heads  upon  pillows 
at  all,  unless  the  prisoner’s  head  was  taken  off.  That 
head  Mr.  Attorney- General  concluded  by  demanding  of 
them,  in  the  name  of  everything  he  could  think  of  with 
a round  turn  in  it,  and  on  the  faith  of  his  solemn  assev- 
eration that  he  already  considered  the  prisoner  as  good 
as  dead  and  gone. 

When  the  Attorney -General  ceased,  a buzz  arose  in  the 
court  as  if  a cloud  of  great  blue-flies  were  swarming 
about  the  prisoner,  in  an  anticipation  of  what  he  was 
soon  to  become.  When  it  toned  down  again,  the  unim- 
peachable patriot  appeared  in  the  witness-box. 

Mr.  Solicitor-General  then,  following  his  leader’s  lead, 
examined  the  patriot : John  Barsad,  gentleman  by  name. 
The  story  of  his  pure  soul  was  exactly  what  Mr.  Attor 
ney-General  had  described  it  to  be — perhaps,  if  it  had 
fault,  a little  too  exactly.  Having  released  his  nob! 
bosom  of  its  burden,  he  would  have  modestly  withdraw 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


61 


himself,  but  that  the  wigged  gentleman  with  the  papers 
before  him,  sitting  not  far  from  Mr.  Lorry,  begged  to 
ask  him  a few  questions.  The  wigged  gentleman  sitting 
opposite,  still  looking  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court. 

Had  lie  ever  been  a spy  himself  ? No,  he  scorned  the 
base  insinuation.  What  did  he  live  upon?  His  proper-, 
tv.  Where  was  his  property  ? He  didn’t  precisely  re- 
member where  it  was.  What  was  it  ? No  business  of 
anybody’s.  Had  he  inherited  it  ? Yes,  he  had.  From 
whom?  Distant  relation.  Very  distant?  Rather.  Ever 
been  in  prison  ? Certainly  not.  Never  in  a debtor’s 
prison  ? Didn’t  see' what  that  had  to  do  with  it.  Never 
in  a debtor’s  prison ? — Come,  once  again.  Never?  Yes. 
How  many  times  ? Two  or  three  times.  Not  five  or 
six?  Perhaps.  Of  what  profession?  Gentleman. 
Ever  been  kicked  ? Might  have  been.  Frequently  ? 
No.  Ever  kicked  down-stairs  ? Decidedly  not  ; once 
received  a kick  on  the  top  of  a staircase,  and  fell  down 
of  his  own  accord.  Kicked  on  that  occasion  for  cheating 
at  dice  ? Something  to  that  effect  was  said  by  the  in- 
toxicated liar  who  committed  the  assault,  but  it  was  not 
true.  Swear  it  was  not  true  ? Positively.  Ever  live  by 
cheating  at  play  ? Never.  Ever  live  by  play  ? Not 
more  than  other  gentlemen.  Ever  borrow  money  of  the 
prisoner?  Yes.  Ever  pay  him?  No.  Was  not  this  in- 
timacy with  the  prisoner,  in  reality  a very  slight  one, 
forced  upon  the  prisoner  in  coaches,  inns,  and  packets  ? 
N o.  Sure  he  saw  th  e prison er  with  these  lists  ? Certain. 
Knew  no  more  about  the  lists  ? No.  Had  not  procured 
them  himself,  for  instance  ? No.  Expect  to  get  any- 
thing by  this  evidence  ? No.  Not  in  regular  govern- 
ment pay  and  employment,  to  lay  traps  ? Oh  dear  no. 
Or  to  do  anything  ? Oh  dear  no.  Swear  that  ? Over 
and  over  again.  No  motives  but  motives  of  sheer 
patriotism  ? None  whatever. 

The  virtuous  servant,  Roger  Cly,  swore  his  way 
through  the  case  at  a great  rate.  He  had  taken  service 
with  the  prisoner,  in  good  faith  and  simplicity,  four 
years  ago.  He  had  asked  the  prisoner,  aboard  the 
Calais  packet,  if  he  wanted  a handy  fellow,  and  the  pris- 
oner had  engaged  him.  He  had  not  asked  the  prisoner 
to  take  the  handy  fellow  as  an  act  of  charity— never 
thought  of  such  a thing.  He  began  to  have  suspicions 
of  the  prisoner,  and  to  keep  an  eye  upon  him,  soon  after- 
wards. In  arranging  his  clothes,  while  travelling,  he 
had  seen  similar  lists  to  these  in  the  prisoner’s  pockets, 
over  and  over  again.  He  had  taken  these  lists  from  the 
drawer  of  the  prisoner’s  desk.  He  had  not  put  them 
there  first.  He  had  seen  the  prisoner  show  these  identi- 
cal lists  to  French  gentlemen  at  Calais,  and  similar  lists 
to  French  gentlemen,  both  at  Calais  and  Boulogne. 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


loved  Ills  country,  and  couldn't  bear  it,  and  bad  given 
information.  He  bad  never  been  suspected  of  stealing  a 
silver  teapot  , be  bad  been  maligned  respecting  a mus- 
tard-pot, but  it  turned  out  to  be  only  a plated  one. 
He  bad  known  the  last  witness  seven  or  eight  years  ; 
but  that  was  merely  a coincidence.  He  didn’t  call  it 
a particularly  curious  coincidence  ; most  coincidences 
were  curious.  Neither  did  he  call  it  a curious  coinci- 
dence that  true  patriotism  was  his  only  motive  too.  He 
was  a true  Briton,  and  hoped  there  were  many  like  him. 

The  blue-flies  buzzed  again,  and  Mr.  Attorney-General 
cedled  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

“ Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  are  you  a clerk  in  Tellson’s 
bank?” 

“ I am.” 

“ On  a certain  Friday  night  in  November  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  did  business  occasion 
you  to  travel  between  London  and  Dover  by  the  mail  ? ” 
“It  did.” 

“ Were  there  any  other  passengers  in  the  mail  ? ” 

“ Two.” 

“ Did  they  alight  on  the  road  in  the  course  of  the 
night  ? ” 

“ They  did.” 

“Mr.  Lorry,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Was  he  one  of 
those  two  passengers  ? ” 

“ I cannot  undertake  to  say  that  he  was.” 

“ Does  he  resemble  either  of  these  two  passengers?  ” 

“ Both  were  so  wrapped  up,  and  the  night  was  so 
dark,  and  we  were  all  so  reserved,  that  I cannot  under- 
take to  say  even  that.” 

“Mr.  Lorry,  look  again  upon  the  prisoner.  Suppos- 
ing him  wrapped  up  as  those  two  passengers  were,  is 
there  anything  in  his  bulk  and  stature  to  render  it  un- 
likely that  he  was  one  of  them  ? ” 

“No.” 

“ You  will  not  swear,  Mr.  Lorry,  that  he  was  not  one 
of  them  ? ” 

“No.” 

“ So  at  least  you  say  he  may  have  been  one  of  them?” 
“Yes.  Except  that  I remember  them  both  to  have 
been — like  myself — timorous  of  highwaymen,  and  the 
prisoner  has  not  a timorous  air.  ” 

“ Did  you  ever  see  a counterfeit  of  timidity,  Mr. 
Lorry  ? ” 

“ I certainly  have  seen  that.” 

“ Mr.  Lorry  look  once  more  upon  the  prisoner.  Have 
you  seen  him  to  your  certain  knowledge,  before  ? ” 

“I  have.”  • 

“ When  ?” 

“ I was  returning  from  France  a few  days  afterwards 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


63 


and,  at  Calais,  the  prisoner  came  on  hoard  the  packet- 
ship  in  which  I returned,  and  made  the  voyage  with 
me.” 

“ At  what  hour  did  he  come  on  hoard?” 

“ At  a little  after  midnight.” 

“ In  the  dead  of  the  night.  Was  he  the  only  passen- 
ger who  came  on  board  at  that  untimely  hour  ? ” 

“ He  happened  to  he  the  only  one.” 

“ ‘ Never  mind  about  that  "happening/  Mr.  Lorry. 
He  was  the  only  passenger  who  came  on  hoard  in  the 
dead  of  the  night  ? ” 

“He  was.” 

“ Were  you  travelling  alone,  Mr.  Lorry,  or  with  any 
companion  ? ” 

“ With  two  companions.  A gentleman  and  a lady. 
They  are  here.” 

“ They  are  here.  Had  you  any  conversation  with  the 
prisoner  ? ” 

“ Hardly  any.  The  weather  was  stormy,  and  the ‘pas- 
sage long  and  rough,  and  I lay  on  a sofa,  almost  from 
shore  to  shore.” 

“Miss  Manette  ! ” 

The  young  lady,  to  whom  all  eyes  had  been  turned  be- 
fore, and  were  now  turned  again,  stood  up  where  she 
had  sat.  Her  father  rose  with  her,  and  kept  her  hand 
drawn  through  his  arm. 

“ Miss  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.” 

To  be  confronted  with  such  pity,  and  such  earnest 
youth  and  beauty,  was  far  more  trying  to  the  accused 
than  to  be  confronted  with  all  the  crowd.  Standing,  as 
it  were,  apart  with  her  on  the  edge  of  his  grave,  not  all 
the  staring  curiosity  that  looked  on,  could,  for  the  mo- 
ment, nerve  him  to  remain  quite  still.  His  hurried  right 
hand  parcelled  out  the  herbs  before  him  into  imaginary 
beds  of  flowers  in  a garden  ; and  his  efforts  to  control 
and  steady  his’  breathing,  shook  the  lips  from  which  the 
colour  rushed  to  his  heart.  The  buzz  of  the  great  flies 
was  loud  again. 

“ Miss  Manette,  have  you  seen  the  prisoner  before  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“ Where  ? ” 

“On  board  of  the  packet-ship  just  now  referred  to, 
sir,  and  on  the  same  occasion.” 

“ You  are  the  young  lady  just  now  referred  to?  ” 

“ Oh  ! most  unhappily,  I am  ! ” 

The  plaintive  tone  of  her  compassion  merged  into  the 
less  musical  voice  of  the  Judge,  as  he  said,  something 
fiercely  : “Answer  the  questions  put  to  you,  and  make 
no  remarks  upon  them.” 

“Miss  Manette,  had  you  any  conversation  with  the  pris- 
oner on  that  passage  across  the  Channel  ? ” 


64 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ Recal  it.” 

In  the  midst  of  a profound  stillness,  she  faintly  began  , 

<c  When  the  gentleman  came  on  board — ” 

“ Do  you  mean  the  prisoner?”  inquired  the  Judge, 
knitting  his  brows. 

“Yes,  my  Lord.” 

“ Then  say  the  prisoner.” 

41  When  the  prisoner  came  on  board,  he  noticed  that 
my  father,”  turning  her  eyes  lovingly  to  him  as  he  stood 
beside  her,  “ was  much  fatigued  and  in  a very  weak 
state  of  health.  My  father  was  so  reduced,  that  I was 
afraid  to  take  him  out  of  the  air,  and  I had  made  a bed 
for  him  on  the  deck  near  the  cabin  steps,  and  I sat  on 
the  deck  at  his  side  to  take  care  of  him.  There  were  no 
other  passengers  that  night,  but  we  four.  The  prisoner 
was  so  good  as  to  beg  permission  to  advise  me  how  I 
could  shelter  my  father  from  the  wind  and  weather,  bet- 
ter than  I had  done.  I had  not  known  how  to  do  it  well, 
not  understanding  how  the  wind  would  set  when  we  were 
out  of  the  harbour.  He  did  it  for  me.  He  expressed 
great  goodness  and  kindness  for  my  father’s  state,  and  I 
am  sure  he  felt  it.  That  was  the  manner  of  our  begin- 
ning to  speak  together.” 

“ Let  me  interrupt  you  for  a moment.  Had  he  come 
on  board  alone  ? ” 

“No.” 

“ How  many  were  with  him  ?” 

“Two  French  gentlemen.” 

“Had  they  conferred  together?” 

“They  had  conferred  together  until  the  last  moment, 
when  it  was  necessary  for  the  French  gentleman  to  be 
landed  in  their  boat.  ” 

“Had  any  papers  been  handed  about  among  them, 
similar  to  these  lists?” 

“ Some  papers  had  been  handed  about*  among  them, 
but  I don’t  know  what  papers.” 

“ Like  these  in  shape  and  size?” 

“ Possibly,  but  indeed  I don’t  know,  although  they 
stood  whispering  very  near  to  me  ; because  they  stood  at 
the  top  of  the  cabin  steps  to  have  the  light  of  the  lamp 
that  was  hanging  there  ; it  was  a dull  lamp,  and  they 
"spoke  very  low,  and  I did  not  hear  what  they  said,  and 
saw  only  that  they  looked  at  papers.” 

“Now,  to  the  prisoner’s  conversation,  Miss  Manette.” 

“The  prisoner  was  as  open  in  his  confidence  with  me 
— which  arose  out  of  my  helpless  situation — as  he  was 
kind,  and  good,  and  useful  to  my  father,  lliope,”  burst* 
ing  into  tears,  “ I may  not  repay  him  by  doing  him  harm 
tc-day.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


65 


“Miss  Manette,  if  the  prisoner  does  not  perfectly  un- 
derstand that  you  give  the  evidence  which  it  is  your  duty 
to  give— which  you  must  give — and  which  you  cannot 
escape  from  giving— with  great  unwillingness,  he  is  the 
only  person  present  in  that  condition.  Please  to  go  on.” 

“ He  told  me  that  he  was  travelling  on  business  of  a 
delicate  and  difficult  nature,  which  might  get  people  into 
trouble,  and  that  he  was  therefore  travelling  under  an 
assumed  name.  He  said  that  this  business  had,  within 
a few  days,  taken  him  to  France,  and  might,  at  intervals, 
take  him  backwards  and  forwards  between  France  and 
England  for  a long  time  to  come.” 

“ Did  he  say  anything  about  America,  Miss  Manette  ? 
Be  particular.” 

“He  tried  to  explain  tome  how  that  quarrel  had 
arisen,  and  he  said  that,  so  far  as  he  could  judge,  it  was 
a wrrong  and  foolish  one  on  England’s  part.  He  added, 
in  a jesting  way,  that  perhaps  George  Washington  might 
gain  almost  as  great  a name  in  history  as  George  the  Third 
But  there  was  no  harm  in  his  way  of  saying  this  : it  was 
said  laughingly,  and  to  beguile  the  time.” 

Any  strongly  marked  expression  of  face  on  the  part  of 
a chief  actor  in  a scene  of  great  interest  to  whom  many 
eyes  are  directed,  will  be  unconsciously  imitated  by  the 
spectators.  Her  forehead  was  painfully  anxious  and  in- 
tent as  she  gave  this  evidence,  and,  in  the  pauses  wThen 
she  stopped  for  the  Judge  to  write  it  down,  watched  its 
effect  upon  the  Counsel  for  and  against.  Among  the 
lookers-on  there  was  the  same  expression  in  all  quarters 
of  the  court ; insomuch,  that  a great  majority  of  the 
foreheads  there,  might  have  been  mirrors  reflecting  the 
witness,  when  the  Judge  looked  up  from  his  notes  to 
glare  at  that  tremendous  heresy  about  George  Washing- 
ton. 

Mr.  Attorney -General  now  signified  to  my  Lord,  that 
he  deemed  it  necessary,  as  a matter  of  precaution  and 
form,  to  call  the  young  lady’s  father.  Doctor  Manette., 
Who  was  called  accordingly. 

“ Doctor  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Have  you 
ever  seen  him  before  ?” 

“ Once.  When  he  called  at  my  lodgings  in  London. 
Some  three  years,  or  three  years  and  a half  ago.” 

“Can  you  identify  him  as  your  fellow-passenger,  on 
board  the  packet,  or  speak  to  his  conversation  with  your 
daughter  ? ” 

“ Sir,  1 can  do  neither.” 

“ Is  there  any  particular  and  special  reason  for  your  be- 
ing unable  to  do  either  ? ” 

He  answered  in  a low  voice,  “ There  is.” 

“ Has  it  been  your  misfortune  to  undergo  a long  impris- 


66 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


onment,  without  trial,  or  even  accusation,  in  your  native 
country,  Doctor  Manette?” 

He  answered,  in  a tone  that  went  to  every  heart,  “ A 
long  imprisonment.” 

“ Were  you  newly  released  on  the  occasion  in  ques- 
tion?” 

“ They  tell  me  so.” 

Have  you  no  remembrance  of  the  occasion  ?” 

“ None.  My  mind  is  a blank,  from  some  time — I can- 
not even  say  what  time — when  I employed  myself,  in 
my  captivity,  in  making  shoes,  to  the  time  when  I found 
myself  living  in  London  with  myr  dear  daughter  here. 
She  had  become  familiar  to  me,  when  a gracious  God 
restored  my  faculties  ; but,  I am  quite  unable  even  to  say 
how  she  had  become  familiar.  I have  no  remembrance 
of  the  process.” 

Mr.  Attorney-General  sat  down,  and  the  father  and 
daughter  sat  down  together. 

A singular  circumstance  then  arose  in  the  case.  The 
object  in  hand,  being,  to  show  that  the  prisoner  went 
down,  with  some  fellow-plotter  untracked,  in  the  Dover 
mail  on  that  Friday  night  in  November  five  years  ago, 
and  got  out  of  the  mail  in  the  night,  as  a blind,  at  a 
place  where  he  did  not  remain,  but  from  which  he 
travelled  back  some  dozen  miles  or  more,  to  a garrison  and 
dockyard,  and  there  collected  information  ; a witness 
was  called  to  identify  him  as  having  been  at  the  precise 
time  required,  in  the  coffee-room  of  an  hotel  in  that 
garrison-  and-dockyard  town,  waiting  for  another  person. 
The  prisoner’s  counsel  was  cross-examining  this  witness 
with  no  result,  except  that  he  had  never  seen  the  pris- 
oner on  any  other  occasion,  when  the  wigged  gentleman 
who  had  all  this  time  been  looking  at  the  ceiling  of  the 
court,  wrote  a word  or  two  on  a little  piece  of  paper, 
screwed  it  up,  and  tossed  it  to  him.  Opening  this  piece 
of,  paper  in  the  next  pause,  the  counsel  looked  with  great 
attention  and  curiosity  at  the  prisoner. 

“ You  say  again  you  are  quite  sure  that  it  was  the 
prisoner?  ” 

The  witness  was  quite  sure. 

“Did  you  ever  see  anybody  very  like  the  prisoner?” 

Not  so  like  (the  witness  said),  as  that  he  could  be  mis- 
taken. 

“ Look  well  for  upon  that  gentleman, my  learned  friend, 
there,”  pointing  to  him  who  had  tossed  the  paper  over, 
“ and  then  look  well  upon  the  prisoner.  How  say  you  ? 
Are  they  very  like  each  other  ? ” 

Allowing  for  my  learned  friend’s  appearance  being 
careless  and  slovenly,  if  not  debauched,  they  were  sufih 
ciently  like  each  other  to  surprise,  not  only  the  witness 
but  everybody  present,  wrhen  they  were  thus  brought  into 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


67 


comparison.  My  Lord  being  prayed  to  bid  my  learned 
friend  lay  aside  bis  wig,  and  giving  no  very  gracious 
consent,  the  likeness  became  much  more  remarkable. 
My  Lord  inquired  of  Mr.  Stryver  (the  prisoner's  counsel), 
whether  they  were  next  to  try  Mr.  Carton  (name  of  my 
learned  friend)  for  treason  ? But,  Mr.  Stryver  replied  to 
my  Lord,  no  ; but  he  would  ask  the  witness  to  tell  him 
whether  what  happened  once,  might  happen  twice  ; 
whether  he  would  have  been  so  confident  if  he  had  seen 
this  illustration  of  his  rashness  sooner  ; whether  he 
would  be  so  confident,  having  seen  it ; and  more  The 
upshot  of  which,  was,  to  smash  this  witness  like  a crock- 
ery vessel,  and  shiver  his  part  of  the  case  to  useless- 
lumber. 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  by  this  time  taken  quite  a lunch 
Of  rust  off  his  fingers,  in  his  following  of  the  evidence. 
He  had  now  to  attend  vrhile  Mr.  Stryver  fitted  the  pris- 
oner's case  on  the  jury,  like  a compact  suit  of  clothes ; 
showing  them  how  the  patriot,  Barsad,  was  a hired  spy 
and  traitor,  an  unblushing  trafficker  in  blood,  and  one  of 
the  greatest  scoundrels  upon  earth  since  accursed  Judas 
—which  he  certainly  did  look  rather  like.  How  the  vir- 
tuous servant,  Cly,  was  his  friend  and  partner,  and  was 
worthy  to  be  ; how  the  watchful  eyes  of  those  forgers 
and  false  swearers  had  rested  on  the  prisoner  as  a vic- 
tim, because  some  family  affairs  in  France,  he  being  of 
French  extraction,  did  require  his  making  those  passages 
across  the  Channel — though  what  those  affairs  were,  a 
consideration  for  others  who  were  near  and  dear  to  him, 
forbad  him,  even  for  Iris  life,  to  disclose.  Howt  the  evi- 
dence that  had  been  warped  and  wrested  from  the 
young  lady,  whose  anguish  in  giving  it  they  had  wit- 
nessed, came  to  nothing,  involving  the  mere  little  inno- 
cent gallantries  and  politenesses  likely  to  pass  between 
any  young  gentleman  and  young  lady  so  thrown  to- 
gether : — with  the  exception  of  that  reference  to  George 
Washington,  which  was  altogether  too  extravagant  and 
impossible,  to  be  regarded  in  any  other  light  than  as  a 
monstrous  joke.  How  it  would  be  a weakness  in  the 
government  to  break  down  in  this  attempt  to  practise 
for  popularity  on  the  lowest  national  antipathies  and 
fears,  and  therefore  Mr.  Attorney-General  had  made  the 
most  of  it ; how,  nevertheless,  it  rested  upon  nothing, 
save  that  vile  and  infamous  character  of  evidence  too 
often  disfiguring  such  cases,  and  of  which  the  State 
Trials  of  this  country  were  full.  But,  there  My  Lord 
interposed  (with  as  grave  a face  as  if  it  had  not  been 
true),  saying  that  he  could  not  sit  upon  that  Bench  and 
suffer  those  allusions. 

Mr.  Stryver  then  called  his  few  witnesses,  and  Mr. 
Cruncher  had  next  to  attend  while  Mr.  Attorney-General 


68 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


turned  tlie  whole  suit  of  clothes  Mr.  Stryver  had  fitted 
on  the  jury,  inside  out  ; showing  how  Barsad  and  Cly 
were  even  a hundred  times  better  than  he  had  thought 
them,  and  the  prisoner  a hundred  times  worse.  Lastly, 
came  My  Lord  himself,  turning  the  suit  of  clothes,  now 
inside  out,  now  outside  in,  but  on  the  whole  decidedly 
trimming  and  shaping  them  into  grave-clothes  for  the 
prisoner. 

And  now,  the  jury  turned  to  consider,  and  the  great 
flies  swarmed  again. 

Mr.  Carton,  who  had  so  long  sat  looking  at  the  ceiling 
of  the  court,  changed  neither  his  place  nor  his  attitude, 
even  in  liis  excitement.  While  his  learned  friend,  Mr. 
Stryver,  massing  his  papers  before  him,  whispered  witl$ 
those  who  sat  near,  and  from  time  to  time  glanced  anx- 
iously at  the  j ury  ; while  all  the  spectators  moved  more 
or  less,  and  grouped  themselves  anew  ; while  even  My 
Lord  himself  arose  from  his  seat,  and  slowly  paced  up 
and  down  his  platform,  not  unattended  by  a suspicion  in 
the  minds  of  the  audience  that  his  state  was  feverish  ; 
this  one  man  sat  leaning  back,  with  his  torn  gown  half 
off  him,  his  untidy  wig  put  on  just  as  it  had  happened 
to  light  on  his  head  after  its  removal,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling  as  they  had  been  all 
day.  Something  especially  reckless  in  his  demeanour, 
not  only  gave  him  a disreputable  look,  but  so  diminished 
the  strong  resemblance  he  undoubtedly  bore  to  the  pris- 
oner (which  his  momentary  earnestness,  when  they  were 
compared  together,  had  strengthened),  that  many  of  the 
lookers-on,  taking  note  of  him  now,  said  to  one  another 
they  would  hardly  have  thought  the  two  were  so  alike. 
-Mr.  Cruncher  made  the  observation  to  his  next  neigh- 
bour, and  added,  “ I'd  hold  half  a guinea  that  he  don't 
get  no  law-work  to  do.  Don't  look  like  the  sort  of  a one 
to  get  any,  do  he  ?" 

Yet,  this  Mr.  Carton  took  in  more  of  the  details  of  the 
scene  than  he  appeared  to  take  in  ; for  now,  when  Miss 
Manette’s  head  dropped  upon  her  father's  breast,  he 
was  the  first  to  see  "it,  and  to  say  audibly:  “Officer! 
look  to  that  young  lady.  Help  the  gentleman  to  take 
her  out.  Don't  you  see  she  will  fall  ! " 

There  was  much  commiseration  for  her  as  she  was  re- 
moved, and  much  sympathy  with  her  father.  It  had 
evidently  been  a great  distress  to  him,  to  have  the  days 
of  his  imprisonment  recalled.  He  had  shown  strong  in- 
ternal agitation  when  he  was  questioned,  and  that  pon- 
dering or  brooding  look  which  made  him  old,  had  been 
upon  him,  like  a heavy  cloud,  ever  since.  As  he  passed 
out,  the  jury,  who  had  turned  back  and  paused  a mo* 
ment,  spoke,  through  their  foreman. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


69 


They  were  not  agreed,  and  wished  to  retire.  My  Lord 
(perhaps  with  George  Washington  on  his  mind)  showed 
some  surprise  that  they  were  not  agreed,  but  signified 
his  pleasure  that  they  should  retire  under  watch  and 
ward,  and  retired  himself.  The  trial  had  lasted  all  day, 
and  the  lamps  in  the  court  were  now  being  lighted.  It 
began  to  be  rumoured  that  the  jury  would  be  out  a long 
while.  The  spectators  dropped  off  to  get  refreshment, 
and  the  prisoner  withdrew  to  the  back  of  the  dock,  and 
sat  down. 

Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  gone  out  when  the  young  lady 
and  her  father  went  out,  now  reappeared,  and  beckoned 
to  Jerry  : who  in  the  slackened  interest,  could  easily 
get  near  him. 

“ Jerry,  if  you  wish  to  take  something  to  eat,  you  can. 
But,  keep  in  the  way.  You  will  be  sure  to  hear  when 
the  Jury  come  in.  Don’t  be  a moment  behind  them,  for 
I want  you  to  take  the  verdict  back  to  the  bank.  You 
are  the  quickest  messenger  I know,  and  will  get  to 
Temple  Bar  long  before  I can.” 

Jerry  had  just  enough  forehead  to  knuckle,  and  he 
knuckled  it  in  acknowledgment  of  this  communication 
and  a shilling.  Mr.  Carton  came  up  at  the  moment, 
and  touched  Mr.  Lorry  on  the  arm. 

“ How  is  the  young  lady?” 

“ She  is  greatly  distressed  ; but  her  father  is  comfort- 
ing her,  and  she  feels  the  better  for  being  out  of  court.” 

‘ ‘ I’ll  tell  the  prisoner  so.  It  won’t  do  for  a respect- 
able bank -gentleman  like  you,  to  be  seen  speaking  to 
him  publicly,  you  know.” 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened,  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  having 
debated  the  point  in  his  mind,  and  Mr.  Carton  made  his 
way  to  the  outside  of  the  bar.  The  way  out  of  court 
lay  in  that  direction,  and  Jerry  followed  him,  all  eyes, 
ears,  and  spikes. 

“ Mr.  Darnay  ! ” 

The  prisoner  came  forward  directly. 

“ You  will  naturally  be  anxious  to  hear  of  the  witness, 
Miss  Manette.  She  will  do  very  well.  You  have  seen 
the  worst  of  her  agitation.” 

uIam  deeply  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  it. 
Could  you  tell  her  so  for  me,  with  my  fervent  acknow- 
ledgments ? ” 

“ Yes,  I could.  I will,  if  you  ask  it.” 

Mr.  Carton’s  manner  was  so  careless  as  to  be  almost 
insolent.  He  stood,  half  turned  from  the  prisoner, 
lounging  with  his  elbow  against  the  bar. 

“ I do  ask  it.  Accept  my  cordial  thanks.” 

“ What,”  said  Carton,  still  only  half  turned  towards 
him,  “ do  you  expect,  Mr.  Darnay  ?” 

“ The  worst.” 


70 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


<e  It’s  the  wisest  thing  to  expect,  and  the  likeliest.  But 
I think  their  withdrawing  is  in  your  favour.” 

Loitering  on  the  way  out  of  court  not  being  allowed, 
Jerry  heard  no  more  ; but  left  them — so  like  each  other 
in  feature,  so  unlike  each  other  in  manner — standing 
side  by  side,  both  reflected  in  the  glass  above  them. 

An  hour  and  a half  limped  heavily  away  in  the  thief- 
and-rascal-crowded  passages  below,  even  though  assisted 
o if  with  mutton  pies  and  ale.  The  hoarse  messenger, 
uncomfortably  seated  on  a form  after  taking  that  re- 
fection, had  dropped  into  a doze,  when  a loud  murmur 
and  a rapid  tide  of  people  setting  up  the  stairs  that  led 
<0  the  court,  carried  him  along  with  them. 

" Jerry  ! Jerry!”  Mr.  Lorry  was  already  calling  at 
the  door  when  he  got  there. 

" Here,  sir  ! It's  a fight  to  get  back  again.  Here  I 
am,  sir  ? ” 

Mr.  Lorry  handed  him  a paper  through  the  throng. 
" Quick  ! Have  you  got  it  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

Hastily  written  on  the  paper  was  the  word  "Ac- 
quitted.” 

"If  you  had  sent  the  message,  ‘ Recalled  to  Life/ 
again,”  muttered  Jerry,  as  he  turned,  "I  should  have 
known  what  you  meant,  this  time.” 

He  had  no  opportunity  of  saying,  or  so  much  as  think- 
ing anything  else,  until  he  was  clear  of  the  Old  Bailey  ; 
for,  the  crowd  came  pouring  out  with  a vehemence  that 
nearly  took  him  off  his  legs,  and  a loud  buzz  swept 
into  the  street  as  if  the  baffled  blue-flies  were  dispersing 
in  search  of  other  carrion. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Congratulatory. 

From  the  dimly-lighted  passages  of  the  court,  the 
last  sediment  of  the  human  stew  that  had  been  boiling 
there  all  day,  was  straining  off,  when  Doctor  Manette, 
Lucie  Manette  his  daughter,  Mr.  Lorry,  the  solicitor 
for  the  defence,  and  its  counsel  Mr.  Stryver,  stood 
gathered  around  Mr.  Charles  Darnay — just  released — 
congratulating  him  on  his  escape  from  death. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  by  a far  brighter  light,  to 
recognise  in  Doctor  Manette,  intellectual  of  face  and 
upright  of  bearing,  the  shoemaker  of  the  garret  in  Paris. 
Yet,  no  one  could  have  looked  at  him  twice,  without 
looking  again : even  though  the  opportunity  of  observatioq 
had  not  extended  to  the  mournful  cadence  of  his  low 
grave  voice,  and  to  the  abstraction  that  overclouded 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


71 


him  fitfully,  without  any  apparent  reason.  While  one 
external  cause,  and  that  a reference  to  his  long  lingering 
agony,  would  always— as  on  the  trial — evoke  this  con- 
dition from  the  depths  of  his  soul,  it  was  also  in  its 
nature  to  arise  of  itself,  and  to  draw  a gloom  over  him, 
as  incomprehensible  to  those  unacquainted  with  his 
story  as  if  they  had  seen  the  shadow  of  the  actual 
Bastile  thrown  upon  him  by  a summer  sun,  when  the 
substance  was  three  hundred  miles  away. 

Only  his  daughter  had  the  power  of  charming  this 
black  brooding  from  his  mind.  She  was  the  golden 
thread  that  united  him  to  a Past  beyond  his  misery,  and 
to  a Present  beyond  his  misery  : and  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  the  light  of  her  face,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  had 
a strong  beneficial  influence  with  him  almost  always. 
Not  absolutely  always,  for  she  could  recal  some  occa- 
sions on  which  her  power  had  failed  ; but,  they  were 
few  and  slight,  and  she  believed  them  over. 

Mr.  Darnay  had  kissed  her  hand  fervently  and  grate- 
fully, and  had  turned  to  Mr.  Stryver,  whom  he  warmly 
thanked.  Mr.  Stryver,  a man  of  little  more  than  thirty, 
but  looking  twenty  years  older  than  he  was,  stout,  loud, 
red,  bluff,  and  free  from  any  drawback  of  delicacy,  had 
a pushing  way  of  shouldering  himself  (morally  and  phy- 
sically) into  companies  and  conversations,  that  argued 
well  for  his  shouldering  his  way  up  in  life. 

He  still  had  his  wig  and  gown  on,  and  he  said,  squar- 
ing himself  at  his  late  client  to  that  degree  that  he 
squeezed  the  innocent  Mr.  Lorry  clean  out  of  the  group  : 
“ I am  glad  to  have  brought  you  off  with  honour,  Mr. 
Darnay.  It  was  an  infamous  prosecution,  grossly  infa- 
mous ; but  not  the  less  likely  to  succeed,  on  that  ac- 
count. ” 

“ You  have  laid  me  under  an  obligation  to  you  for 
life — in  two  senses,”  said  his  late  client,  taking  his 
hand. 

“I  have  done  my  best  for  you,  Mr.  Darnay  ; and  my 
best  is  as  good  as  another  man’s,  I believe.” 

It  clearly  being  incumbent  on  somebody  to  say,  “ Much 
better,”  Mr.  Lorry  said  it ; perhaps  not  quite  disinterest- 
edly, but  with  the  interested  object  of  squeezing  himself 
back  again. 

“You  think  so  ? ” said  Mr.  Stryver.  “Well  ! you  have 
been  present  all  day,  and  you  ought  to  know.  You  are 
a man  of  business,  too.” 

“ And  as  such,”  quoth  Mr.  Lorry,  whom  the  counsel 
learned  in  the  law  had  now  shouldered  back  into  the  group, 
just  as  he  had  previously  shouldered  him  out  of  it — “ as 
such,  I will  appeal  to  Doctor  Manette,  to  break  up  this 
conference  and  order  us  all  to  our  homes.  Miss  Lucie 


72 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


looks  ill,  Mr.  Darnay  has  liad  a terrible  day,  we  are  wonj 
out.” 

“ Speak  for  yourself,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Stryver  ; “I 
have  a night's  work  to  do  yet.  Speak  for  yourself.” 

“ I speak  for  myself,”  answered  Mr,  Lorry,  “ and  for 
Mr.  Darney,  and  for  Miss  Lucie,  and — Miss  Lucie  do  you 
not  think  I may  speak  for  us  all  ? ” He  asked  her  the 
question  pointedly,  and  with  a glance  at  her  father. 

His  face  had  become  frozen,  as  it  were,  in  a very  curi- 
ous look  at  Darnay  : an  intent  look,  deepening  into  a 
frown  of  dislike  and  distrust,  not  even  unmixed  with 
fear.  With  this  strange  expression  on  him  his  thought^ 
had  wandered  away. 

“ My  father,”  said  Lucie,  softly  laying  her  hand  on  hm 

He  slowly  shook  the  shadow  off,  and  turned  to  her. 

“ Shall  we  go  home,  my  father  ?” 

With  along  breath,  he  answered,  “Yes.” 

The  friends  of  the  acquitted  prisoner  had  dispersed, 
under  the  impression — which  he  himself  had  originated 
— that  he  would  not  be  released  that  night.  The  lights 
were  nearly  all  extinguished  in  the  passages,  the  iron 
gptes  were  being  closed  with  a jar  and  a rattle,  and  the 
dismal  place  was  deserted  until  to-morrow  morning’s  in- 
terest of  gallows,  pillory,  whipping -post,  and  branding- 
iron,  should  repeople  it.  Walking  between  her  father 
and  Mr.  Darnay,  Lucie  Manette  passed  into  the  open  air. 
A hackney-coach  was  called,  and  the  father  and  daughter 
departed  in  it. 

Mr.  Stryver  had  left  them  in  the  passages,  to  shoulder 
his  way  back  to  the  robing-room.  Another  person  who 
had  not  joined  the  group,  or  interchanged  a word  with 
any  of  them,  but  who  hud  been  leaning  against  the  wail 
where  its  shadow  was  darkest,  had  silently  strolled  out 
after  the  rest,  and  had  looked  on  until  the  coach  drove 
away.  He  now  stepped  up  to  where  Mr.  Lorry  and  Mr, 
Darnay  stood  upon  the  pavement. 

“ So,  Mr.  Lorry  ! Men  of  business  may  speak  to  Mr. 
Darnay  now  ? ” 

Nobody  had  made  any  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Carton’s 
part  in  the  day’s  proceedings  ; nobody  had  known  of  it. 
He  was  unrobed,  and  was  none  the  better  for  it  in  ap- 
pearance. 

“ If  you  knew  what  a conflict  goes  on  in  the  business 
mind  when  the  business  mind  is  divided  between  good- 
natured  impulse  and  business  appearances,  you  would  be 
amused,  Mr.  Darnay.” 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened,  and  said  warmly,  “ You  have 
mentioned  that  before,  sir.  We  men  of  business,  who 
serve  a House,  are  not  our  own  masters.  We  have  to 
think  of  the  House  more  than  ourselves.  ” 

“/  know,  I know,”  rejoined  Mr.  Carton,  carelessly. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


73 


u Don’t  be  nettled,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  are  as  good  as  an- 
other, I have  no  doubt  ; better,  I dare  say.” 

“ And  indeed,  sir,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  not  minding 
him,  “ I really  don’t  know  what  you  have  to  do  with  the 
matter.  If  you’ll  excuse  me,  as  very  much  your  elder, 
for  saying  so,  I really  don’t  know  that  it  is  your  busi- 
ness.” 

“ Business  l Bless  you,  /have  no  business,”  said  Mr„ 
Carton. 

“ It  is  a pity  you  have  not,  sir.” 

“ I think  so  too.” 

“ If  you  had,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  “ perhaps  you  would 
attend  to  it.” 

Lord  love  you,  no! — I shouldn’t,”  said  Mr.  Car- 
ton. 

“ Well,  sir  !”  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  thoroughly  heated  by 
his  indifference,  “ business  is  a very  good  thing,  and  a 
very  respectable  thing.  And,  sir,  if  business  imposes 
its  restraints  and  its  silences  and  impediments,  Mr.  Dar- 
nay  as  a young  gentleman  of  generosity  knows  how  to 
make  allowance  for  that  circumstance.  Mr.  Darnay, 
good  night,  God  bless  you,  sir  ! I hope  you  have  been 
this  day  preserved  for  a prosperous  and  happy  life. — 
Chair  there  ! ” 

Perhaps  a little  angry  with  himself,  as  well  as  with 
the  barrister,  Mr.  Lorry  bustled  into  the  chair,  and  was 
carried  off  to  Tellson’s.  Carton,  who  smelt  of  port 
wine,  and  did  not  appear  to  be  quite  sober,  laughed  then, 
and  turned  to  Darnay  : 

“ This  is  a strange  chance  that  throws  you  and  me 
together.  This  must  be  a strange  night  to  you,  stand- 
ing alone  here  with  your  counterpart  on  these  street- 
stones  ? ” 

“ I hardly  seem  yet,”  returned  Charles  Darnay,  “to 
belong  to  this  world  again.” 

“ I don’t  wonder  at  it  ; it’s  not  so  long  since  you  were 
pretty  far  advanced  on  your  way  to  another.  Yov 
speak  faintly.” 

“ I begin  to  think  I am  faint.” 

“ Then  why  the  devil  don’t  you  dine?  I dined,  my 
self,  while  those  numskulls  were  deliberating  which 
world  you  should  belong  to — this,  or  some  other.  Le 
me  show  you  the  nearest  tavern  to  dine  well  at.” 

Drawing  his  arm  through  his  own,  he  took  him  dowi: 
Lud^ate-hill  to  Fleet-street,  and  so,  up  a covered  way, 
into  a tavern.  Here,  they  were  shown  into  a little 
room,  where  Charles  Darnay  was  soon  recruiting  his 
strength  with  a good  plain  dinner  and  good  wine  ; while 
Carton  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the  same  table,  with  his 
separate  bottle  of  port  before  him,  and  his  fully  half-iu- 
solent  manner  upon  him.  Vol.  11 


74 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Do  yon  feel,  yet,  that  you  belong  to  this  terrestrial 
•scheme  again,  Mr.  Camay?” 

“ I am  frightfully  confused  regarding  time  and  place  ; 
but  I am  so  far  mended  as  to  feel  that.” 

“ It  must  be  an  immense  satisfaction  !” 

He  said  it  bitterly,  and  filled  up  his  glass  again  .° 
w Inch  was  a large  one. 

“ As  to  me,  the  greatest  desire  I have,  is  to  forget  that 
I belong  to  it.  . It  has  no  good  in  it  for  me — except  wine 
like  this — nor  I for  it.  So  we  are  not  much  alike  in  that 
particular.  Indeed,  I begin  to  think  we  are  not  much 
alike  in  any  particular,  you  and  I.” 

Confused  by  the  emotion  of  the  day,  and  feeling  that 
his  being  there  with  this  Double  of  coarse  deportment, 
to  be  like  a dream,  Charles  Camay  was  at  a loss  how  to 
answer  ; finally  answered  not  at  all. 

“Now  your  dinner  is  done,”  Carton  presently  said, 
“why  don’t  you  call  a health,  Mr.  Camay;  why  don’t 
you  gi  ve  your  toast  ? ” 

“ What  health  ? What  toast  ?” 

“ Why  it’s  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.  It  ought  to  be, 
it  must  be.  I’ll  swear  it’s  there.” 

“Miss  Manette,  then  !” 

“Miss  Manette,  then  ! ” 

Looking  his  companion  full  in  his  face  while  he  drank 
the  toast.  Carton  flung  his  glass  over  his  shoulder  against 
the  wall,  where  it  shivered  to  pieces  ; then,  rang  the 
bell,  and  ordered  in  another. 

“ That’s  a fair  young  lady  to  hand  to  a coaeh  in  the 
dark,  Mr.  Camay  ! ” he  said  filling  his  new  goblet. 

A slight  frown  and  a laconic  “ Yes,”  was  the  answer. 

“ That’s  a fair  young  lady  to  be  pitied  by  and  wept  for 
by  ! How  does  it  feel  ? Is  it  worth  being  tried  for 
one’s  life,  to  be  the  object  of  such  sympathy  and  com- 
passion, Mr.  Camay?” 

Again  Camay  answered  not  a word. 

* “She  was  mightily  pleased  to  haye  your  message, 
when  I gave  it  her.  Not  that  she  showed  she  was 
pleased,  but  I suppose  she  was.” 

The  allusion  served  as  a timely  reminder  to  Camay 
£hat  this  disagreeable  companion  had,  of  his  own  free 
will,  assisted  him  in  the  strait  of  the  day.  He  turned 
the  dialogue  to  that  point,  and  thanked  him  for  it. 

“I  neither  want  any  thanks,  nor  merit  any,”  was  the 
careless  rejoinder.  “ It  was  nothing  to  do,  in  the  first 
place  ; and  I don’t  know  why  I did  it,  in  the  second. 
Mr.  Camay,  let  me  ask  you  a question.  ” 

“ Willingly,  and  a small  return  for  your  good  offices.” 

“ Do  you  think  I particularly  like  you  ? ” 

“ Really,  Mr.  Carton,”  returned  the  other,  oddly  dis- 
concerted, “ I have  not  asked  myself  the  question.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


75 


“ But  ask  yourself  the  question  now.9’ 

“ You  have  acted  as  if  you  do  ; hut  I don’t  think  you 
do.” 

“ /don’t  think  I do,”  said  Carton.  <r  l begin  to  have 
a very  good  opinion  of  your  understanding.  ” 

“ Nevertheless,”  pursued  Darnay,  rising  to  ring  the 
bell,  “ there  is  nothing  in  that,  I hope,  to  prevent  my 
calling  the  reckoning,  and  our  parting  without  ill-blood 
on  either  side.” 

Carton  rejoining,  “ Nothing  in  life  !”  Darnay  rang. 
“Do  you  call  the  whole  reckoning?”  said  Carton.  . On 
his  answering  in  the  affirmative,  “ Then  bring  me  an- 
other pint  of  this  same  wine,  drawer,  and  come  and 
wake  me  at  ten.” 

The  bill  being  paid,  Charles  Darnay  rose  and  wished 
him  good  night.  Without  returning  the  wish.  Carton 
rose  too,  with  something  of  a threat  or  defiance  in  his 
manner,  and  said,  “A  last  word,  Mr,  Darnay  : you  think 
I am  drunk  ? ” 

“I  think  you  have  been  drinking,  Mr.  Carton.” 

“ Think  ? You  know  I have  been  drinking.” 

“ Since  I must  say  so,  I know  it.” 

“ Then  you  shall  likewise  know  why.  I am  a disap- 
pointed drudge,  sir.  I care  for  no  man  on  earth,  and  no 
man  on  earth  cares  for  me.” 

“ Much  to  be  regretted.  You  might  have  used  your 
talents  better.” 

“May  be  so,  Mr.  Darnay;  may  be  not.  Don’t  let 
your  sober  face  elate  you,  however  ; you  don’t  know 
what  it  may  come  to.  Good  night  ! ” 

When  he  was  left  alone,  this  strange  being  took  up  a 
candle,  went  to  a glass  that  hung  against  the  wall,  and 
surveyed  himself  minutely  in  it. 

“ Do  you  particularly  like  the  man  ? ” he  muttered,  at 
his  own  image  ; “ why  should  you  particularly  like  a 
man  who  resembles  you?  There  is  nothing  in  you  to 
like ; you  know  that.  Ah,  confound  you  ! What  a 
change  you  have  made  in  yourself  ! A good  reason  for 
taking  to  a man,  that  he  shows  you  what  you  have  fallen 
away  from,  and  what  you  might  have  been  ! Change 
place?*  with  him,  and  would  you  have  been  looked  at  by 
those  blue  eyes  as  he  was,  and  commiserated  by  that 
agitated  face  as  he  was?  Come  on,  and  have  if  out  in 
plain  words  ! You  hate  the  fellow.” 

He  resorted  to  his  pint  of  wine  for  consolation,  drank  it 
all  in  a few  minutes,  and  fell  asleep  on  his  arms,  with  his 
hair  straggling  over  the  table,  and  a long  winding-sheet  in 
the  candle  dripping  down  upon  him. 


7G 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Jackal. 

Those  were  drinking  days,  and  most  men  drank  hard. 
Bo  very  great  is  the  improvement  Time  has  brought 
about  in  such  habits,  that  a moderate  statement  of  the 
quantity  of  wine  and  punch  which  one  man  would  swal- 
low in  the  course  of  a night,  without  any  detriment  to 
his  reputation  as  a perfect  gentleman,  would  seem,  in 
these  days,  a ridiculous  exaggeration.  The  learned  pro- 
fession of  the  Law  was  certainly  not  behind  any  other 
learned  profession  in  its  Bacchanalian  propensities ; 
neither  was  Mr.  Stryver,  already  fast  shouldering  his 
way  to  a large  and  lucrative  practice,  behind  his  com- 
peers in  this  particular,  any  more  than  in  the  drier  parts 
of  the  legal  race. 

A favourite  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  eke  at  the  Sessions, 
Mr.  Stryver  had  begun  cautiously  to  hew  awa y the  lower 
staves  of  the  ladder  on  which  he  mounted.  Sessions  and 
Old  Bailey  had  now  to  summon  their  favourite, ' peeially, 
to  their  longing  arms  ; and  shouldering  itself  towards 
the  visage  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  in  the  Court  of 
King’s  Bench,  the  florid  countenance  of  Mr.  Stryver 
might  be  daily  seen,  bursting  out  of  the  bed  ( : wigs, 
like  a great  sunflower  pushing  its  way  at  the  sun  from 
among  a rank  garden- full  of  flaring  companions. 

It  had  once  been  noted  at  the  Bar,  that  while  Mr. 
Stryver  was  a glib  man,  and  an  unscrupulous,  and  a 
ready,  and  a bold,  he  had  not  that  faculty  of  extracting 
the  essence  from  a heap  of  statements,  which  is  among 
the  most  striking  and  necessary  of  the  advocate’s  accom- 
plishments. But,  a remarkable  impHivement  came  upon 
him  as  to  this.  - The  more  business  lie  got,  the  greater 
his  power  seemed  to  grow  of  getting  at  its  * A . and  mar- 
row ; and  however  late  at  night  he  sat  caro  _ ing  with 
Sydney  Carton,  he  always  had  his  points  at  his  fingers’ 
ends  in  the  morning. 

Sydney  Carton,  idlest  and  most  unpromising  of  men, 
was  Stryker’s  great  ally.  What  the  two-drank  together, 
between  Hilary  Term  and  Michaelmas,  might  have  floated 
a king’s  ship.  Stryver  never  had'  a case  in  hand,  any- 
where, but  Carton  was  there  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, staring  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court ; they  went  the 
same  Circuit,  and  even  there  they  prolonged  their  usual 
orgies  late  into  the  night,  and  Carton  was  rumoured  to 
be  seen  at  broad  day,  going  home  steal!  ily  and  un- 
steadily to  his  lodgings,  like  a dissipated  cat.  At  last,  it 
began  to  get  about,  among  such  as  were  interested  in 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  matter,  that  although  Sydney  Carton  would  never  he 
a lion,  he  was  an  amazingly  good  jackal,  and  that  he 
rendered  suit  and  service  to  Stryver  in  that  humble  ca- 
pacity. 

“ Ten  o'clock,  sir,”  said  the  man  at  the  tavern,  whom 
he  had  charged  to  wake  him — “ten  o'clock,  sir.” 

“ What’s  the  matter?” 

“ Ten  o'clock,  sir.” 

“ What  do  you  mean?  Ten  o’clock  at  night?” 

“Yes,  sir.  Y ^ur  honour  told  me  to  call  you.” 

“Oh  ! I remember.  Very  well,  very  well.” 

After  a few  dull  efforts  to  get  to  sleep  again,  which 
the  man  dexterously  combatted  by  stirring  the  fire  con- 
tinuously for  five  minutes,  he  got  up,  tossed  his  hat  on, 
and  walked  out.  He  turned  into  the  Temple,  and,  hav- 
ing revived  himself  by  twice  pacing  the  pavements  of 
King’s  Bench- walk  and  Paper- buildings,  tttrned  into  the 
Stryver  chambers. 

The  Stryver  clerk,  who  never  assisted  in  these  con- 
ferences, had  gone  home,  and  the  Stryver  principal 
opened  the  door.  He  had  his  slippers  on,  and  a loose 
bedgown,  and  his  throat  was  bare  for  his  greater  ease. 
He  had  that  rather  wild,  strained,  seared  marking  about 
the  eyes,  which  may  be  observed  in  all  free  livers  of  his 
class,  from  the  portrait  of  Jeffries  downward,  and  which 
can  be  traced,  under  various  disguises  of  Art  through 
the  portraits  of  every  Drinking  Age. 

“You  are  a little  late,  Memory,”  said  Stryver. 

“ About  the  usual  time  ; it  may  be  a quarter  of  an 
hour  later.” 

They  went  into  a dingy  room  lined  with  books  and 
littered  with  papers,  where  there  was  a blazing  fire.  A 
kettle  steamed  upon  the  hob,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
wreck  of  papers  .•  table  shone,  with  plenty  of  wine  upon 
it,  and  Ty,  and  rum,  and  sugar,  and  lemons. 

“ jZou  J-  Lve  had  your  bottle,  I perceive,  Sydney.” 

“Two  to-night,  I think.  I have  been  dining  with  the 
day's  client  ; or  seeing  him  dine — it's  all  one  ! '' 

“That  was  a rare  point,  Sydney,  that  you  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  identification.  How  did  you  come  by  if  ? 
When  did  it  strike  you  ? ” 

“ I thought  he  was  rather  a handsome  fellow,  and  I 
thought  I should  have  been  much  the  same  sort  of  fel- 
low, if  I had  had  any  luck.” 

Mr.  Stryver  laughed,  till  he  shook  his  precocious 
paunch. 

“You  and  your  luck,  Sydney  ! Get  to  work,  get  to 
work.  ” 

Sullenly  enough,  the  jackal  loosened  his  dress,  went 
into  an  adjoining  room,  and  came  back  with  a large  jug 
of  cold  water,  a basin,  and  a t,oWel  or  two.  Steeping 


78 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  towels  in  the  water,  and  partially  wringing  them 
out,  he  folded  them  on  his  head  in  a manner  hideous  to 
behold,  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  said,  “Now  I am 
ready  ! ” 

“ Not  much  boiling  down  to  be  done  to-night.  Mem- 
ory,” said  Mr.  Stryver,  gaily,  as  he  looked  among  his 
papers. 

“ How  much? ” 

“ Only  two  sets  of  them.” 

“ Give  me  the  worst  first.” 

“ There  they  are,  Sydney.  Fire- away  ! ” 

The  lion  then  composed  himself  on  his  back  on  a sofa 
on  one  side  of  the  drinking-tablo,  while  the  jackal  sat 
rat  his  own  paper-bestrewn  table  proper,  on  the  other 
side  of  it,  with  the  bottles  and  glasses  ready  to  his  hand. 
Both  resorted  to  the  drinking-table  without  stint,  but 
each  in  a different  way  ; the  lion  for  the  most  part  re- 
clining with  his  hands  in  his  waistband,  looking  at  the 
fire,  or  occasionally  flirting  with  some  lighter  document ; 
the  jackal,  with  knitted  brows  and  intent  face,  so  deep 
in  his  task,  that  his  eyes  did  not  even  follow  the  hand 
he  stretched  out  for  glass — which  often  groped 

about,  for  a minute  cr  more,  bofore  it  found  the  glass 
for  his  lips.  Two  or  tl  ree  times,  the  matter  in  hand 
became  so  knotty,  that  tlio  jackal  found  it  imperative  on 
him  to  get  up,  and  steep  his  towels  anew.  From  these 
pilgrimages  to  the  jug  and  basin,  he  returned  with  such 
eccentricities  of  damp  head-gear  as  no  words  can  de- 
scribe ; which  were  made  the  more  ludicrous  by  his 
anxious  gravity. 

At  length  the  jackal  had  got  together  a oompaet  repast 
for  the  lion,  and  proceeded  to  offer  it  to  him.  The  lion 
took  it  with  care  and  caution,  mado  his  selections  from 
it,  and  his  remarks  upon  it,  and  the  jackal  assisted 
both.  When  the  repast  was  fully  discussed,  the  lion 
put  his  hands  in  his  waistband  again,  and  lay  down  to 
meditate.  The  jackal  then  invigorated  himself  with  a 
bumper  for  his  throttle,  and  a fresh  application  to  his 
head,  and  applied  himself  to  the  collection  of  a second 
meal ; this  was  administered  to  the  lion  in  the  same 
manner,  and  was  not  disposed  of  until  the  clocks  struck 
three  in  the  morning. 

“ And  now  we  have  done,  Sydney,  fill  a bumper  of 
punch,”  said  Mr.  Stryver. 

Tbe  jackal  removed  the  towels  from  his  head,  which 
had  been  steaming  again,  shook  himself,  yawned,  shiv- 
ered, and  complied. 

“ You  were  very  sound,  Sydney,  in  the  matter  of  those 
crown  witnesses  to-day.  Every  question  told.” 

“ I always  am  sound  ; am  I not?” 


A TALE  OE  TWO  CITIES. 


79 


“ I don’t  gainsay  it.  What  has  roughened  your  tem- 
per? Put  some  punch  to  it  and  smooth  it  again.” 

With  a deprecatory  grunt,  the  jackal  again  complied. 

“ The  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old  Shrewsbury  School,” 
said  Stryver,  nodding  his  head  over  him  as  he  reviewed 
him  in  the  present  and  the  past,  ‘ the  old  seesaw  Syd- 
ney. Up  one  minute  and  down  the  next ; now  in  spirits 
and  now  in  despondency  ! ” 

“Ah!”  returned  the  other,  sighing : “yes!  The 
same  Sydney,  with  the  same  luck.  Even  then,  I did 
exercises  for  other  boys,  and  seldom  did  my  own.” 

“ And  why  not  ? ” 

“ God  knows.  It  was  my  way,  I suppose.” 

He  sat,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  _ legs 
stretched  out  before  him,  looking  at  the  fire. 

“ Carton,”  said  his  friend,  squaring  himself  at  him 
with  a bullying  air,  as  if  the  fire-grate  had  been  the  fur- 
nace in  which  sustained  endeavour  was  forged,  and  the 
one  delicate  thing  to  be  done  for  the  old  Sydney  Carton 
of  old  Shrewsbury  School  was  to  shoulder  him  into  it, 
“your  way  is,  and  always  was,  a lame  way.  You  sum- 
mon no  energy  and  purpose.  Look  at  me.” 

“Oh,  botheration!”  returned  Sydney,  with  a lighter 
and  more  good-humoured  laugh,  “ don’t  you  be  moral ! ” 

“ How  have  I done  what  I have  done  ? ” said  Stryver  ; 
“ how  do  I do  what  I do  ? ” 

“ Partly  through  paying  me  to  help  you,  I suppose. 
But  it’s  not  worth  your  while  to  apostrophise  me,  or  the 
air,  about  it  ; what  you  want  to  do,  you  do.  You  were 
always  in  the  front  rank,  and  I was  always  behind.” 

“I  had  to  get  into  the  front  rank;  I was  not  born 
there,  was  I ? ” 

“ I was  not  present  at  the  ceremony  ; but  my  opinion 
is  you  were,”  said  Carton.  At  this,  he  laughed  again, 
and  they  both  laughed. 

“ Before  Shrewsbury,  and  at  Shrewsbury,  and  ever 
since  Shrewsbury,”  pursued  Carton,  “you  have  fallen 
into  your  rank,  and  I have  fallen  into  mine.  Even  when 
we  were  fellow-students  in  the  Student-Quarter  of  Paris, 
picking  up  French,  and  French  law,  and  other  French 
crumbs  that  wq  didn’t  get  much  good  of,  you  were  al- 
ways somewhere,  and  I was  always — nowhere.” 

“And  whose  fault  was  that?” 

“Upon  my  soul,  I am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  yours. 
You  were  always  driving  and  riving  and  shouldering  and 
pressing,  to  that  restless  degree  that  I had  no  chance  for 
my  life  but  in  rust  and  repose.  It’s  a gloomy  thing, 
however,  to  talk  about  one’s  own  past,  with  the  day 
breaking.  Turn  me  in  some  other  direction  before  I 
go.” 

“Well  then  ! Pledge  me  to  the  pretty  witness,”  said 


80 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Stryver,  holding  up  his  glass.  Are  you  turned  in  a 
pleasant  direction  ? ” 

Apparently  not,  for  he  became  gloomy  again. 

“ Pretty  witness,”  he  muttered,  looking  down  into  his 
glass.  “ I have  had  enough  of  witnesses  to-day  and  to- 
night ; who’s  your  pretty  witness  V’ 

<c  The  picturesque  doctor’s  daughter,  Miss  Manette.” 

“ She  pretty  ! ” 

“ Is  she  not?” 

“ No.” 

“Why,  man  alive,  she  was  the  admiration  of  the 
whole  Court ! ” 

“ Rot  the  admiration  of  the  whole  Court ! Who  made 
the  Old  Bailey  a judge  of  beauty  ? She  was  a golden- 
haired doll  ? ” 

“Do  you  know,  Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  looking  at 
him  with  sharp  eyes,  and  slowly  drawing  a hand  across 
his  florid  face  : “do  you  know,  I rather  thought,  at  the 
time,  that  you  sympathized  with  the  golden-haired  doll, 
and  were  quick  to  see  what  happened  to  the  golden- 
haired  doll  ?” 

“Quick  to  see  what  happened  ! If  a girl,  doll  or  no 
doll,  swoons  within  a yard  or  two  of  a man’s  nose,  he 
can  see  it  without  a perspective -glass.  I pledge  you, 
but  I deny  the  beauty.  And  now  I’ll  have  no  more 
drink  ; I’ll  get  to  bed.” 

When  bis  host  followed  him  out  on  the  staircase  with  a 
candle,  to  light  him  down  the  stairs,  the  day  was  coldly 
looking  in  through  its  grimy  windows.  When  he  got 
out  of  the  house,  the  air  was  cold  and  sad,  the  dull  sky 
overcast,  the  river  dark  and  dim,  the  whole  scene  like  a 
lifeless  desert.  And  wreaths  of  dust  were  spinning 
round  and  round  before  the  morning  blast,  as  if  the 
desert-sand  had  risen  far  away,  and  the  first  spray  of  it 
in  its  advance  had  begun  to  overwhelm  the  city. 

Waste  forces  within  him,  and  a desert  all  around,  this 
man  stood  still  on  his  way  across  a silent  terrace,  and 
saw  for  a moment,  lying  in  the  wilderness  before  him,  a 
mirage  of  honourable  ambition,  self-denial  and  persever- 
ance. In  the  fair  ci ty  of  this  vision,  there  were  airy  gal- 
leries from  which  the  loves  and  graces  looked  upon  him, 
gardens  in  which  the  fruits  of  life  hung  ripening,  waters 
of  Hope  that  sparkled  in  his  sight.  A moment,  and  it 
was  gone.  Climbing  to  a high  chamber  in  a well  of 
bouses,  he  threw  himself  down  in  his  clothes  on  a neg- 
lected bed,  and  its  pillow  was  wet  with  wasted  tears. 

Sadly,  sadly,  the  sun  rose  ; it  rose  upon  no  sadder 
sight  than  the  man  of  good  abilities,  and  good  emotions, 
incapable  of  their  directed  exercise,  incapable  of  his  own 
help  and  his  own  happiness,  sensible  of  the  blight  on 
him,  and  resigning  himself  to  let  it  eat  him  away. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


81 


CHAPTER  VI 

Hundreds  of  People. 

The  quiet  lodgings  of  Doctor  Manette  were  in  a quiet 
street-corner  not  far  from  Soho-square.  On  tlie  after- 
noon of  a certain  fine  Sunday  when  the  waves  of  four 
months  had  rolled  over  the  trial  for  treason,  and  carried 
It,  as  to  the  public  interest  and  memory,  far  out  to  sea, 
Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  walked  along  the  sunny  streets  from 
Clerkenwell  where  he  lived,  on  his  way  to  dine  with  the 
Doctor.  After  several  relapses  into  business-absorption, 
Mr.  Lorry  had  become  the  Doctor’s  friend,  and  the  quiet 
street-corner  was  the  sunny  part  of  his  life. 

On  this  certain  fine  Sunday,  Mr.  Lorry  walked  towards 
Soho,  early  in  the  afternoon,  for  three  reasons  of  habit. 
Firstly,  because,  on  fine  Sundays,  he  often  walked  out 
before  dinner,  with  the  Doctor  and  Lucie  ; secondly,  be 
cause,  on  unfavourable  Sundays,  he  was  accustomed  to 
be  with  them  as  the  family  friend,  talking,  reading, 
looking  out  of  window,  and  generally  getting  through 
the  day  ; thirdly,  because  he  happened  to  have  his  own 
little  shrewd  doubts  to  solve,  and  knew  how  the  ways  of 
the  Doctor’s  household  pointed  to  that  time  as  a likely 
time  for  solving  them. 

A quainter  corner  than  the  corner  wrhere  the  Doctor 
lived,  was  not  to  be  found  in  London.  There  was  no 
way  through  it,  and  the  front  windows  of  the  Doctor’s 
lodgings  commanded  a pleasant  little  vista  of  street 
that  had  a congenial  air  of  retirement  on  it.  Thera 
were  few  buildings  then,  north  of  the  Oxford-road,  and 
forest-trees  flourished,  and  wild  flowers  grew,  and  the 
hawthorn  blossomed,  in  the  now  vanished  fields.  As  a 
consequence,  country  airs  circulated  in  Soho  with  vig- 
orous freedom,  instead  of  languishing  into  the  parish 
like  stray  paupers  without  a settlement  ; and  there  was 
many  a good  south  wall,  not  far  off,  on  which  the  peaches 
ripened  in  their  season. 

The  summer  light  struck  into  the  corner  brilliantly  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  day  ; but,  when  the  streets  grew 
hot,  the  corner  was  in  shadow,  though  not  in  shadow  so 
remote  but  that  you  could  see  beyond  it  into  a glare  of 
brightness.  It  was  a cool  spot,  staid  but  cheerful,  a 
yonderful  place  for  echoes,  and  a very  harbour  from  the 
raging  streets. 

There  ought  to  have  been  a tranquil  bark  in  such  an 
anchorage,  and  there  was.  The  Doctor  occupied  two 


82 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


floors  of  a large  still  house,  where  several  callings  pur, 
ported  to  be  pursued  by  day,  but  whereof  little  was  aud- 
ible any  day,  and  which  was  shunned  by  all  of  them  at 
night.  In  a building  at  the  back,  attainable  by  a court' 
yard  where  a plane-tree  rustled  its  green  leaves,  church- 
organs  claimed  to  be  made,  and  silver  to  be  chased,  and 
likewise  gold  to  be  beaten  by  some  mysterious  giant 
who  had  a golden  arm  starting  out  of  the  wall  of  the 
front  hall — as  if  he  had  beaten  himself  precious,  and 
menaced  a similar  conversion  of  all  visitors.  Very  little 
of  these  trades,  or  of  a lonely  lodger  rumoured  to  live 
^ip- stairs,  or  of  a dim  coach -trimming  maker  asserted  to 
have  a counting-house  below,  was  ever  heard  or  seen. 
Occasionally,  a stray  workman  putting  his  coat  on,  tra- 
versed the  hall,  or  a stranger  peered  about  there,  or  a 
distant  clink  was  heard  across  the  court-yard,  or  a thump 
from  the  golden  giant.  These,  however,  were  only  the 
exceptions  required  to  prove  the  rule  that  the  sparrows 
in  the  plane-tree  behind  the  house,  and  the  echoes  in 
the  comer  before  it,  had  their  own  way  from  Sunday 
morning  into  Saturday  night. 

Doctor  Manette  received  such  patients  here  as  his  old 
reputation,  and  its  revival  in  the  floating  whispers  of  his 
story,  brought  him.  His  scientific  knowledge,  and  his 
vigilance  and  skill  in  conducting  ingenious  experiments, 
brought  him  otherwise  into  moderate  request,  and  he 
earned  as  much  as  he  wanted. 

These  things  were  within  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry’s  knowl- 
edge, thoughts,  and  notice,  when  he  rang  the  door-bell 
of  the  tranquil  house  in  the  corner,  on  the  fine  Sunday 
afternoon. 

“ Doctor  Manette  at  home  ?” 

Expected  home. 

“ Miss  Lucie  at  home  ? " 

Expected  home. 

“ Miss  Pross  at  home  ?” 

Possibly  at  home,  but  of  a certainty  impossible  for 
handmaid  to  anticipate  intentions  of  Miss  Pross,  as  to 
admission  or  denial  of  the  fact. 

“ As  I am  at  home  myself,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ I’ll  go  up- 
stairs.” 

Although  the  Doctor’s  daughter  had  known  nothing  of 
the  country  of  her  birth,  she  appeared  to  have  innately 
derived  from  it  that  ability  to  make  much  of  little  means, 
which  is  one  of  its  most  useful  and  most  agreeable  char- 
acteristics. Simple  as  the  furniture  was,  it  was  set  off 
by  so  many  little  adornments,  of  no  value  but  for  their 
taste  and  fancy,  that  its  effect  was  delightful.  The  dis- 
position of  everything  in  the  rooms,  from  the  largest  ob- 
ject to  the  least ; the  arrangement  of  colours,  the  elegant 
variety  and  contrast  obtained  by  thrift  in  trifles,  by  deli- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


cate  hands,  clear  eyes,  and  good  sense  ; were  at  once  so 
pleasant  in  themselves,  and  so  expressive  of  their  origi- 
nator, that,  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood  looking  about  him,  the 
very  chairs  and  tables  seemed  to  ask  him,  with  some- 
thing of  that  peculiar  expression  which  he  knew  so  well 
by  this  time,  whether  he  approved  ? 

There  were  three  rooms  on  a floor,  and,  the  doors  by 
which  they  communicated  being  put  open  that  the  air 
might  pass  freely  through  them  all,  Mr.  Lorry,  smilingly 
observant  of  that  fanciful  resemblance  which  he  detected 
all  around  him,  walked  from  one  to  another.  The  first 
was  the  best  room,  and  in  it  were  Lucie’s  birds,  and  flow- 
ers, and  books,  and  desk,  and  work- table,  and  box  of 
water-colours  ; the  second  was  the  Doctor’s  consulting- 
room,  used  also  as  the  dining-room  ; the  third,  changing- 
ly  speckled  by  the  rustle  of  the  plane-tree  in  the  yard, 
was  the  Doctor’s  bedroom,  and  there,  in  a corner,  stood 
the  disused  shoemaker’s  bench  and  tray  of  tools,  much 
as  it  had  stood  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the  dismal  house 
by  the  wine-shop,  in  the  suburb  of  Saint  Antoine  in 
Paris. 

“ I wonder,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pausing  in  his  looking 
about,  “ that  he  keeps  that  reminder  of  his  sufferings  by 
him  ! ” 

“ And  why  wonder  at  that?”  was  the  abrupt  inquiry 
that  made  him  start. 

It  proceeded  from  Miss  Pross,  the  wild  red  woman, 
strong  of  hand,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  first  made  at 
the  Royal  George  Hotel  at  Dover,  and  had  since  im- 
proved, 

“ I should  have  thought — ” Mr.  Lorry  began. 

“ Pooh  ! You’d  have  thought ! ” said  Miss  Pross  ; and 
Mr.  Lorry  left  off. 

“ How  do  you  do?  ” inquired  that  lady  then — sharply, 
and  yet  as  if  to  express  that  she  bore  him  no  malice. 

y I am  pretty  well,  I thank  you,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry, 
with  meekness,  “ how  are  you?” 

“ Nothing  to  boast  of,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

“ Indeed  ?” 

“ Ah  ! indeed  !”  said  Miss  Pross.  “ I am  very  muck 
put  out  about  my  Ladybird.” 

“ Indeed  ? ” 

“•  For  gracious  sake  say  something  else  besides  ‘ in- 
deed/ or  you’ll  fidget  me  to  death,”  said  Miss  Pross : 
whose  character  (dissociated  from  stature)  wars  short- 
ness. 

“ Really,  then?”  said  Mr.  Lorry  as  an  amendment. 

“ Really,  is  bad  enough,”  returned  Miss  Pross,  “ but 
better.  Yes,  I am  very  much  put  out.” 

“ May  I ask  the  cause  ? ” 


84 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ I don’t  want  dozens  of  people  who  are  not  at  all 
worthy  of  Ladybird,  to  come  here  looking  after  her,** 
said  Miss  Pross. 

“ Bo  dozens  come  for  that  purpose  ?” 

''‘'Hundreds,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

It  was  characteristic  of  this  lady  (as  of  some  other  peo- 
ple before  her  time  and  since)  that  whenever  her  original 
proposition  was  questioned,  she  exaggerated  it. 

“ Dear  me  !”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  the  safest  remark  he 
could  think  of. 

44 1 have  lived  with  the  darling — or  the  darling  has 
lived  with  me,  and  paid  me  for  it ; which  she  certainly 
should  never  have  done,  you  may  take  your  affidavit,  if 
I could  have  afforded  to  keep  either  myself  or  her  for 
nothing — since  she  was  ten  years  old.  And  it’s  really 
very  hard,”  said  Miss  Press. 

Not  seeing  with  precision  what  was  very  hard,  Mr. 
Lorry  shook  his  head  ; using  that  important  part  of  him  - 
self as  a sort  of  fairy  cloak  that  would  fit  anything. 

“ All  sorts  of  people  who  are  not  in  the  least  degree 
worthy  of  the  pet,  are  always  .turning  up/’  said  Miss 
Pross.  “ When  you  began  it— -* 

“ 1 began  it.  Miss  Pross?” 

“ Didn’t  you  ? Who  brought  her  father  to  life  ?” 

ei  Oh  ! If  that  was  beginning  it — 99  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

It  wasn’t  ending  it,  I supjjose?  I say,  when  you  be- 
gan it,  it  was  hard  enough  ; not  that  I have  any  fault  to 
find  with  Doctor  Manette,  except  that  he  is  not  worthy 
of  such  a daughter,  which  is  no  imputation  on  him,  for 
it  was  not  to  he  expected  that  anybody  should  be,  under 
any  circumstances.  But  it  really  is  doubly  and  trebly 
hard  to  have  crowds  and  multitudes  of  people  turning 
up  after  him  (I  could  have  forgiven  him),  to  take  Lady 
bird’s  affections  away  from  me.” 

Mr.  Lorry  knew  Miss  Pross  to  he  very  jealous,  but  he 
also  knew  her  by  this  time  to  be,  beneath  the  surface  of 
her  eccentricity,  one  of  those  unselfish  creatures — found 
only  among  women — who  will,  for  pure  love  and  admi- 
ration, bind  themselves  willing  slaves,  to  youth  when 
they  have  lost  it,  to  beauty  that  they  never  had,  to  ac 
complishxnents  that  they  were  never  fortunate  enough 
gain,  to  bright  hopes  that  never  shone  upon  their  own 
sombre  lives.  He  knew  enough  of  the  world  to  know 
that  there  is  nothing  in  it  better  than  the  faithful 
service  of  the  heart ; so  rendered  and  so  free  from  any 
mercenary  taint,  he  had  such  an  exalted  respect  for  it, 
that,  in  the  retributive  arrangements  made  by  his  own 
mind — we  all  make  such  arrangements,  more  or  less — he 
stationed  Miss  Pross  much  nearer  to  the  lower  Angela 
than  many  ladies  immeasurably  better  got  up  both  by 
Nature  and  Art,  who  had  balances  at  Tellson’So 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


35 


" There  never  was,  nor  will  be,  but  one  man  worthy 
of  Ladybird/'  said  Miss  Pross  ; "and  that  was  my 
brother  Solomon,  if  he  hadn't  made  a mistake  in  life.” 

Here  again  : Mr.  Lorry's  inquiries  into  Miss  Press's 
personal  history,  had  established  the  fact  that  her  bro- 
ther Solomon  was  a heartless  scoundrel  who  had  stripped 
her  of  everything  she  possessed,  as  a stake  to  speculate 
with,  and  had  abandoned  her  in  her  poverty  for  ever- 
more, with  no  touch  of  compunction.  Miss  Pross's  fideb 
ity  of  belief  in  Solomon  (deducting  a mere  trifle  for  this 
slight  mistake)  was  quite  a serious  matter  with  Mr. 
Lorry,  and  had  its  weight  in  his  good  opinion  of  her. 

As  we  happen  to  be  alone  for  the  moment,  a*nd  are 
both  people  of  business,”  he  said,  when  they  had  got 
back  to  the  drawing-room,  and  had  sat  down  there  in 
friendly  relations,  " let  me  ask  you— does  the  Doctor,  in 
talking  with  Lucie,  never  refer  to  the  shoemaking  time* 
yet?'' 

" Never.” 

" And  yet  keeps  that  bench  and  those  tools  beside 
him  ? ” 

" Ah  ! ” returned  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head.  “ But 
I don't  say  he  don't  refer  to  it  within  himself.” 

"Do  you  believe  that  he  thinks  of  it  much  ?” 

" I do,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

" Do  you  imagine — ” Mr.  Lorry  had  begun,  when 
Miss  Pross  took  him  up  short  with  : 

" Never  imagine  anything.  Have  no  imagination  at 
all.” 

" I stand  corrected  ; do  you  suppose — you  go  so  far  as 
to  suppose,  sometimes  ? '' 

" Now  and  then,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

" Do  you  suppose,”  Mr.  Lorry  went  on,  with  a laugh- 
ing twinkle  in  his  bright  eye,  as  he  looked  kindly  at  her, 
“ that  Doctor  Manette  has  any  theory  of  his  own,  pre- 
served through  all  those  years,  relative  to  the  cause  of 
his  being  so  oppressed  : perhaps,  even  to  the  name  of  his 
oppressor  ? ” 

" I don't  suppose  anything  about  it  but  what  Ladybird 
tells  me.” 

" And  that  is—?  ” 

“ That  she  thinks  he  has.” 

" Now  don't  he  angry  at  my  asking  all  these  questions 
because  I am  a mere  dull  man  of  business,  and  you  are  a 
woman  of  business.” 

“ Dull  ? ” Miss  Pross  inquired,  with  placidity. 

Rather  wishing  his  modest  adjective  away,  Mr.  Lorry 
replied,  "No,  no,  no.  Surely  not.  To  return  to  busi- 
ness : — Is  it  not  remarkable  that  Doctor  Manette,  un- 
questionably innocent  of  any  crime  as  we  are  well  as 
sured  he  is,  should  never  touch  upon  that  question  2 X 


86 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


will  not  say  witli  me,  though  he  had  business  relations 
with  me  many  years  ago,  and  we  are  now  intimate  ; I 
will  say  with  the  fair  daughter  to  whom  he  is  so  devot- 
edly attached,  and  who  is  so  devotedly  attached  to  him? 
Believe  me.  Miss  Pross,  I don’t  approach  the  topic  with 
you,  out  of  curiosity,  but  out  of  zealous  interest.” 

“ Well ! To  the  best  of  my  understanding,  and  bad’s 
the  best  you’ll  tell  me,”  said  Miss  Pross,  softened  by  the 
tone  of  the  aoology,  “ he  is  afraid  of  the  whole  subject.” 

“ Afraid  ? ” 

“It’s  plain  enough,  I should  think,  why  he  may  be. 
It’s  a dreadful  remembrance.  Besides  that,  his  loss  of 
himself  grew  out  of  it.  Not  knowing  how  lie  lost  him- 
self, or  how  he  recovered  himself,  he  may  never  feel 
certain  of  not  losing  himself  again.  That  alone  wouldn’t 
make  the  subject  pleasant,  I should  think.” 

It  was  a profounder  remark  than  Mr.  Lorry  had  looked 
for.  “True,”  said  he,  “and  fearful  to  reflect  upon. 
Yet,  a doubt  lurks  in  my  mind,  Miss  Pross,  whether  it 
is  good  for  Doctor  Manette  to  have  that  suppression  al- 
ways shut  up  within  him.  Indeed,  it  is  this  doubt  and 
the  uneasiness  it  sometimes  causes  me  that  has  led  me  to 
our  present  confidence.” 

“Can’t  be  helped,”  said  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head. 
“ Touch  that  string,  and  he  instantly  changes  for  the 
worse.  Better  leave  it  alone.  In  short,  must  leave  it 
alone,  like  or  no  like.  Sometimes,  he  gets  up  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  and  will  be  heard,  by  us  overhead 
there,  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down,  in 
his  room.  Ladybird  has  learnt  to  know  then,  that  his 
mind  is  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down,  in 
his  old  prison.  She  hurries  to  him,  and  they  go  on  to- 
gether, walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down, 
until  he  is  composed.  But  he  never  says  a word  of  the 
true  reason  of  his  restlessness,  to  her,  and  she  finds  it 
best  not  to  hint  at  it  to  him.  In  silence  they  go  walking 
up  and  down  together,  walking  up  and  down  together, 
till  her  love  and  company  have  brought  him  to  himself.” 

Notwithstanding  Miss  Pross’s  denial  of  her  own  im- 
agination, there  was  a perception  of  the  pain  of  being 
monotonously  haunted  by  one  sad  idea,  in  her  repetition  of 
the  phrase,  walking  up  and  down,  which  testified  to  her 
^possessing  such  a thing. 

The  corner  has  been  mentioned  as  a wonderful  corner 
ior  echoes  ; it  had  begun  to  echo  so  resoundingly  to  the 
tread  of  coming  feet,  that  it  seemed  as  though  the 
very  mention  of  that  weary  pacing  to  and  fro  had  set  it 
going. 

“ Here  they  are  ! ” said  Miss  Pross,  rising  to  break  up 
the  conference  ; “ and  now  we  shall  have  hundreds  of 
people  pretty  soon  1 ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


87 


it  was  such  a curious  corner  in  its  acoustical  properties, 
such  a peculiar  Ear  of  a place,  that  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood 
at  the  open  window,  looking  for  the  father  and  daugh- 
ter whose  steps  he  heard,  he  fancied  they  would  never 
approach.  Not  only  would  the  echoes  die  away,  as 
jhough  the  steps  had  gone  ; but,  echoes  of  other  steps 
that  never  came,  would  be  heard  in  their  stead,  and 
would  die  away  for  good  when  they  seemed  close  at  hand. 
However,  father  and  daughter  did  at  last  appear,  and 
Miss  Pross  was  ready  at  the  street  door  to  receive  them. 

Miss  Pross  was  a pleasant  sight,  albeit  wild,  and  red, 
and  grim,  taking  off  her  darling’s  bonnet  when  she  came 
up- stairs*  and  touching  it  up  with  the  ends  of  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  blowing  the  dust  off  it,  and  folding  her 
mantle  ready  for  laying  by,  and  smoothing  her  rich  hair 
with  as  much  pride  as  she  could  possibly  have  taken  in 
her  own  hair  if  she  had  been  the  vainest  and  handsomest 
of  women.  Her  darling  was  a pleasant  sight  too,  em- 
bracing her  and  thanking  her.  and  protesting  against  tier 
taking  so  much  trouble  for  her — which  last  she  only 
dared  to  do  playfully,  or  Miss  Pross,  sorely  hurt,  would 
have  retired  to  her  own  chamber  and  cried.  The  Doctor 
was  a pleasant  sight  too,  looking  on  at  them,  and  telling 
Miss  Pross  how  she  spoilt  Lucie,  in  accents  and  with  eyes 
that  had  as  much  spoiling  in  them  as  Miss  Pross  had, 
and  would  have  had  more  if  it  were  possible.  Mr.  Lorry 
was  a pleasant  sight  too,  beaming  at  all  this  in  his  little 
wig,  and  thanking  his  bachelor  stars  for  having  lighted 
him  in  his  declining  years  to  a Home,  But,  no  Hundreds 
of  people  came  to  see  the  sights,  and  Mr,  Lorry  looked 
in  vain  for  the  fulfilment  of  Miss  Pross’s  prediction. 

Dinner-time,  and  still  no  Hundreds  of  people.  In  the 
arrangements  of  the  little  household,  Miss  Pross  took 
charge  of  the  lower  regions,  and  always  acquitted  herself 
marvellously.  Her  dinners,  of  a very  modest  quality, 
were  so  well  cooked  and  so  well  served,  and  so  neat  in 
their  contrivances,  half  English  and  half  French,  that 
nothing  could  be  better.  Miss  Pross’s  friendship  being 
of  the  thoroughly  practical  kind,  she  had  ravaged  Soho 
and  the  adjacent  provinces,  in  search  of  impoverished 
French,  who,  tempted  by  shillings  and  haL  crowns, 
would  impart  culinary  mysteries  to  her.  From  these 
decayed  sons  and  daughters  of  Gaul,  she  had  acquired 
such  wonderful  arts,  that  the  woman  and  girl  whc 
formed  the  staff  of  domestics  regarded  her  as  quite  a 
Sorceress,  or  Cinderella’s  Godmother ; who  would  send 
out  for  a fowl,  a rabbit,  a vegetable  or  two  from  the 
garden,  and  change  them  into  anything  she  pleased. 

On  Sundays,  Miss  Pross  dined  at  the  Doctor’s  table, 
but  on  other  days  persisted  in  taking  her  meals  at  un- 
known periods*  either  in  the  lower  regions,  or  in  her  own 


88 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


room  on  the  second  floor — a blue  chamber,  to  which  no 
one  but  her  Ladybird  ever  gained  admittance.  On  this 
occasion,  Miss  Pross,  responding  to  Ladybird’s  pleasant 
face  and  pleasant  efforts  to  please  her,  unbent  exceeding* 
ly  ; so  the  dinner  was  very  pleasant,  too. 

It  was  an  oppressive  day,  and,  after  dinner,  Lucie  pro* 
posed  that  the  wine  should  be  carried  out  under  the 
plane-tree,  and  they  should  sit  there  in  the  air.  As 
everything  turned  upon  her  and  revolved  about  her, 
they  went  out  under  the  plane-tree,  and  she  carried  the 
wine  down  for  the  special  benefit  of  Mr.  Lorry.  She 
had  installed  herself  some  time  before,  as  Mr.  Lorry’s 
cup-bearer  ; and  while  they  sat  under  the  pl|ne-tree, 
talking,  she  kept  his  glass  replenished.  Mysterious 
backs  and  ends  of  houses  peeped  at  them  as  they  talked, 
and  the  plane-tree  whispered  to  them  in  its  own  way 
above  their  heads. 

Still,  the  Hundreds  of  people  did  not  present  them- 
selves. Mr.  Darnay  presented  himself  while  they  were 
sitting  under  the  plane-tree,  but  he  was  only  One. 

Doctor  Manette  received  him  kindly,  and  so  did  Lucie. 
But,  Miss  Pross  suddenly  became  afflicted  with  a twitch- 
ing in  the  head  and  body,  and  retired  into  the  house. 
She  was  not  unfrequently  the  victim  of  this  disorder, 
as  she  called  it,  in  familiar  conversation,  “a  fit  of  the 
jerks.” 

The  Doctor  was  in  his  best  condition,  and  looked  spe- 
cially young.  The  resemblance  between  him  and  Lucie 
was  very  strong  at  such  times,  and,  as  they  sat  side  by 
side,  she  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  resting  his  arm 
on  the  back  of  her  chair,  it  was  very  agreeable  to  trace 
the  likeness. 

He  had  been  talking  all  day,  on  many  subjects  and 
with  unusual  vivacity.  “ Pray,  Doctor  Manette,  ” said 
Mr.  Darnay,  as  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree — and  he  said 
it  in  the  natural  pursuit  of  the  topic  in  hand,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  the  old  buildings  of  London — “have  you 
seen  much  of  the  Tower?”  4 

“ Lucie  and  I have  been  there  ; but  only  casually. 
We  have  seen  enough  of  it  to  know  that  it  teems  with 
interest  ; little  more.” 

“I  have  been  there,  as  you  remember,”  said  Darnay, 
with  a smile,  though  reddening  a little  angrily,  “in  an- 
other character,  and  not  in  a character  that  gives  facili- 
ties for  seeing  much  of  it.  They  told  me  a curious  thing 
when  I was  there.” 

“ What  was  that?”  Lucie  asked. 

“ In  making  some  alterations,  the  workmen  came  upon 
an  old  dungeon,  which  had  been,  for  many  years,  built  , 
up  and  forgotten.  Every  stone  of  its  inner  wall  was  cov- 
ered with  inscriptions  which  had  been  carved  by  prisoners 


A TALE  OE  TWO  CITIES. 


—dates,  names,  complaints,  and  prayers.  Upon  a cornet* 
stone  in  an  angle  of  tlie  wall,  one  prisoner  who  seemed 
to  have  gone  to  execution,  had  cut,  as  his  last  work, 
three  letters.  They  were  done  with  some  very  poor  in- 
strument, and  hurridly,  with  an  unsteady  hand.  At 
first,  they  were  read  as  D.  I.  C.  ; but,  on  being  more 
carefully  examined,  the  last  letter  was  found  fco  be  G. 
There  was  no  record  or  legend  of  any  prisoner  with  these 
initials,  and  many  fruitless  guesses  were  made  what  the 
name  could  have  been.  At  length,  it  was  suggested 
that  the  letters  were  not  initials,  but  the  complete  word. 
Dig.  The  floor  was  examined  very  carefully  under  the 
inscription,  and,  in  the  earth  beneath  a stone,  or  tile,  or 
some  fragment  of  paving,  were  found  the  ashes  of  a 
paper,  mingled  with  the  ashes  of  a small  leathern  case 
or  bag.  What  the  unknown  prisoner  had  written  will 
never  be  read,  but  he  had  written  something,  and  hidden 
it  away  to  keep  it  from  the  gaoler,” 

“ My  father  ! ” exclaimed  Lucie,  “ you  are  ill  ! ” 

He  had  suddenly  started  up,  with  his  hand  to  his 
kead._  ELs  manner  and  his  look  quite  terrified  them  all. 

‘ ‘ No,  my  dear,  not  ill.  There  are  large  drops  of  rain 
falling,  and  they  make  me  start.  We  had  better  go  in.” 

He  recovered  himself  almost  instantly.  Rain  was 
really  falling  in  large  drops,  and  he  showed  the  back  of 
his  hand  with  rain-drops  on  if.  Rut,  he  said  not  a sin- 
gle word  in  reference  to  the  discovery  that  had  been  told 
of,  and,  as  they  went  into  the  house,  the  business  eye  of 
Mr.  Lorry,  either  detected,  or  fancied  it  detected,  on  his 
face,  as  he  turned  towards  Charles  Darnay,  the  same 
singular  look  that  had  been  upon  it  when  it  turned 
towards  him  in  the  passages  of  the  Court  House. 

He  recovered  himself  so  quickly,  however,  that  Mr. 
Lorry  had  doubts  of  his  business  eye.  The  arm  of  the 
golden  giant  in  the  hall  was  not  more  steady  than  he 
was,  when  he  stopped  under  it  to  remark  to  them  that 
he  was  not  yet  proof  against  slight  surprises  (if  he  ever' 
would  be),  and  that  the  rain  had  startled  him. 

Tea-time,  and  Miss  Press  making  tea,  with  another  fit 
of  the  j6rks  upon  her,  and  yet  no  Hundreds  of  people. 
Mr.  Carton  had  lounged  in,  but  he  made  only  Two. 

The  night  was  so  very  sultry,  that  although  they  sat 
with  doors  and  windows  open,  they  were  overpowered 
by  heat.  When  the  tea-table  was  done  with,  they  all 
moved  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked  out  into  the 
heavy  twilight  Lucie  sat  by  her  father;  Darnay  sat  be- 
side her  ; Carton  leaned  against  a window.  The  curtains 
were  long  and  white,  and  some  of  the  thunder-gusts  that 
whirled  into  the  corner,  caught  them  up  to  the  ceiling, 
and  waved  them  like  spectral  wings. 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


<e  The  rain -drops  are  still  falling,  large,  heavy,  and 
few,”  said  Doctor  Manette.  4 4 It  comes  slowly.” 

“ It  comes  surely,”  said  Carton. 

They  spoke  low,  as  people  watching  and  waiting 
mostly  do ; as  people  in  a dark  room,  watching  and 
waiting  for  Lightning,  always  do. 

There  was  a great  hurry  in  the  streets,  of  people 
speeding  away  to  get  shelter  before  the  storm  broke  ; 
the  wonderful  corner  for  echoes  resounded  with  the 
echoes  of  footsteps  coming  and  going,  yet  not  a footstep 
was  there. 

“ A multitude  of  people,  and  yet  a solitude  ! ” said 
Darnay,  when  they  had  listened  for  a while. 

“Is  it  not  impressive,  Mr.  Darnay?”  asked  Lucie. 
“ Sometimes,  I have  sat  here  of  an  evening,  until  I 
have  fancied — but  even  the  shade  of  a foolish  fancy 
makes  me  shudder  to-night,  when  all  is  so  black  and 
solemn — ” 

“ Let  us  shudder  too.  We  may  know  what  it  is  ? ” 

“ It  will  seem  nothing  to  you.  Such  whims  are  only 
impressive  as  we  originate  them,  I think  ; they  are  not 
to  be  communicated.  I have  sometimes  sat  alone  here 
of  an  evening,  listening,  until  I have  made  the  echoes 
out  to  be  the  echoes  of  all  the  footsteps  that  are  coming 
by-and-by  into  our  lives.” 

4 ‘ There  is  a great  crowd  coming  one  day  into  our 
lives,  if  that  be  so,”  Sydney  Carton  struck  in,  in  his 
moody  way. 

The  footsteps  were  incessant,  and  the  hurry  of  them 
became  more  and  more  rapid.  The  corner  echoed  and 
re-echoed  with  the  tread  of  feet  ; some,  as  it  seemed, 
under  the  windows  ; some,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  room  ; 
some  coming,  some  going,  some  breaking  off,  some 
stopping  altogether  ; ail  in  the  distant  streets,  and  not 
one  within  sight. 

“'Are  all  these  footsteps  destined  to  come  to  all  of  us, 
•Miss  Manette,  or  are  we  to  divide  them  among  us  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know,  Mr.  Darnay  ; I told  you  that  it  was  a 
foolish  fancy,  but  you  asked  for  it.  When  1 have 
yielded  myself  to  it,  I have  been  alone,  and  then  I have 
imagined  them  the  footsteps  of  the  people  who  are  to 
come  into  my  life,  and  my  father’s.” 

“I  take  them  into  mine!”  said  Carton.  I ask  no 
questions  and  make  no  stipulations.  There  is  a great 
crowd  bearing  down  upon  us.  Miss  Manette,  and  I see 
them  ! — by  the  Lightning.  ” He  added  the  last  words, 
after  there  had  been  a vivid  flash  which  had  shown  him 
lounging  in  the  window. 

“ And  I hear  them  ! ” he  added  again,  after  a peal  of 
thunder.  “Here  they  come,  fast,  fierce,  and  furious!” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


91 


It  was  the  rush  and  roar  of  rain  that  he  typified,  and 
it  stopped  him,  for  no  voice  could  be  heard  in  it.  A 
memorable  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  broke  with 
that  sweep  of  water,  and  there  was  not  a moment's 
interval  in  crash,  and  fire,  and  rain,  until  after  the  moon 
rose  at  midnight. 

The  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's  was  striking  One  in  the 
cleared  air,  when  Mr.  Lorry,  escorted  by  Jerry,  high* 
booted  and  bearing  a lantern,  set  forth  on  his  return- 
passage  to  Clerkenwell.  There  were  solitary  patches  of 
road  on  the  way  between  Soho  and  Clerkenwell,  and  Mr. 
Lorry,  mindful  of  footpads,  always  retained  Jerry  for 
this  service  : though  it  was  usually  performed  a good 
two  hours  earlier. 

4 4 What  a night  it  has  been  ! Almost  a night,  Jerry,” 
said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ to  bring  the  dead  out  of  their  graves.” 

“X  never  see  the  night  myself,  master— nor  yet  I 
don't  expect  to  it— what  would  do  that,”  answered 
Jerry. 

“ Good  night,  Mr.  Carton,”  said  the  man  of  business. 
€t  Good  night,  Mr.  Darnay.  Shall  we  ever  see  such  a 
night  again,  together !” 

Perhaps.  Perhaps,  see  the  great  crowd  of  people 
with  its  rush  and  roar,  bearing  down  upon  them,  too. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Monseigneur  in  Toivn. 

MONSEIGNEUR,  one  of  the  great  lords  in  power  at  the 
Court,  held  his  fortnightly  reception  in  his  grand  hotel 
in  Paris.  Monseigneur  was  in  his  inner  room,  his 
sanctuary  of  sanctuaries,  the  Holiest  of  Holiests  to  the 
erowd  of  worshippers  in  the  suite  of  rooms  without. 
Monseigneur  was  about  to  take  his  chocolate.  Mon- 
seigneur  could  swallow  a great  many  things  with  ease,  and 
was  by  some  few  sullen  minds  supposed  to  be  rather 
rapidly  swallowing  France,  but,  his  morning’s  chocolate 
could  not  so  much  as  get  into  the  throat  of  Monseigneur, 
without  the  aid  of  four  strong  men  besides  the  Cook. 

Yes.  It  took  four  men,  all  four  a-blaze  with  gorgeous 
decoration,  and  the  Chief  of  them  unable  to  exist  with 
fewer  than  two  gold  watches  in  his  pocket,  emulative  of 
the  noble  and  chaste  fashion  set  by  Monseigneur,  to 
conduct  the  happy  chocolate  to  Monseigneur’s  lips.  One 
lacquey  carried  the  chocolate-pot  into  the  sacred  presence; 
a second,  milled  and  frothed  the  chocolate  with  the 
little  instrument  he  bore  for  that  function  ; a third. 


92 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


presented  the  favoured  napkin  ; a fourth  (he  of  the  two 
gold  watches)  poured  the  chocolate  out.  It  was  im- 
possible for  Monseigneur  to  dispense  with  one  of  these 
attendants  on  the  chocolate  and  hold  his  high  place 
under  the  admiring  Heavens.  Deep  would  have  been 
the  blot  upon  his  escutcheon  if  his  chocolate  had  been 
ignobly  waited  on  by  only  three  men  ; he  must  have  died 
of  two. 

Monseigneur  had  been  out  at  a little  supper  last  night, 
where  the  Comedy  and  the  Grand  Opera  were  charmingly 
represented.  Monseigneur  was  out  at  a little  supper 
most  nights,  with  fascinating  company.  So  polite  and 
so  impressible  was  Monseigneur,  that  the  Comedy  and 
the  Grand  Opera  had  far  more  influence  with  him  in  the 
tiresome  articles  of  state  affairs  and  state  secrets,  than 
the  needs  of  all  France.  A happy  circumstance  for 
France,  as  the  like  always  is  for  all  countries  similarly 
favoured  ! — always  was  for  England  (by  way  of  exam- 
ple), in  the  regretted  days  of  the  merry  Stuart  who  sold  it. 

Monseigneur  had  one  truly  noble  idea  of  general  pub- 
lic business,  which  was,  to  let  everything  go  on  in  its 
own  way  ; of  particular  public  business.  Monseigneur 
had  the  other  truly  noble  idea  that  it  must  all  go  his 
way — tend  to  his  own  power  and  pocket.  Of  his  pleas- 
ures, general  and  particular,  Monseigneur  had  the  other 
truly  noble  idea,  that  the  world  was  made  for  them. 
The  text  of  his  order  (altered  from  the  original  by  only 
a pronoun,  which  is  not  much)  ran  : “The  earth  and  the 
fulness  thereof  are  mine,  saith  Monseigneur.  ” 

Yet,  Monseigneur  had  slowly  found  that  vulgar  em- 
barrassments crept  into  his  affairs,  both  private  and 
public  ; and  he  had,  as  to  both  classes  of  affairs,  allied 
himself  per  force  with  a Farmer-General.  As  to  finan- 
ces public,  because  Monseigneur  could  not  make  any- 
thing at  all  of  them,  and  must  consequently  let  them 
out  to  somebody  who  could  ; as  to  finances  private,  be- 
cause Farmer-Generals  wrere  rich,  and  Monseigneur, 
after  generations  of  great  luxury  and  expense,  was 
growing  poor.  Hence,  Monseigneur  had  taken  his  sister 
from  a convent,  while  there  was  yet  time  to  ward  off  the 
impending  veil,  the  cheapest  garment  she  could  wear, 
and  had  bestowed  her  as  a prize  upon  a very  rich  Far- 
mer-General, poor  in  family.  Which  Farmer-General, 
carrying  an  appropriate  cane  with  a golden  apple  on  the 
top  of  it,  was  now  among  the  company  in  the  outer 
rooms,  much  prostrated  before  by  mankind — always  ex- 
cepting superior  mankind  of  the  blood  of  Monseigneur, 
who,  his  own  wife  included,  looked  down  upon  him  with 
the  loftiest  contempt. 

A sumptuous  man  was  the  Farmer-General.  Thirty 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


93 


horses  stood  in  his  stables,  twenty-four  male  domestics 
sat  in  his  halls,  six  body-women  waited  on  his  wife.  As 
one  who  pretended  to  do  nothing  but  plunder  and  forage 
where  he  could,  the  Farmer- General — howsoever  his 
matrimonial  relations  conduced  to  social  morality — was 
at  least  the  greatest  reality  among  the  personages  who 
attended  at  the  hotel  of  Monseigneur  that  day. 

For,  the  rooms,  though  a beautiful  scene  to  look  at, 
and  adorned  with  every  device  of  decoration  that  the 
taste  and  skill  of  the  time  could  achieve,  were,  in  truth, 
not  a sound  business  ; considered  with  any  reference  to 
the  scarecrows  in  the  rags  and  nightcaps  elsewhere  (and 
not  so  far  oft*,  either,  but  that  the  watching  towers  of 
Notre -Dame,  almost  equidistant  from  the  two  extremes, 
could  see  them  both),  they  would  have  been  an  exceed- 
ingly uncomfortable  business— if  that  could  have  been 
anybody’s  business,  at  the  house  of  Monseigneur.  Mili- 
tary officers  destitute  of  military  knowledge  *,  na^al  of 
ficers  with  no  idea  of  a ship  ; civil  officers  without  a 
notion  of  affairs ; brazen  ecclesiastics,  of  the  worst 
world  worldly,  with  sensual  eyes,  loose  tongues,  and 
looser  lives  ; all  totally  unfit  for  their  several  callings, 
all  lying  horribly  in  pretending  to  belong  to  them,  but 
all  nearly  or  remotely  of  the  order  of  Monseigneur,  and 
therefore  foisted  on  all  public  employments  from  which 
anything  was  to  be  got  ; these  were  to  be  told  off  by  the 
score  and  the  score.  People  not  immediately  connected 
with  Monseigneur  or  the  State,  yet  equally  unconnected 
with  anything  that  was  real,  or  with  lives  passed  in  travel- 
ling by  any  straight  road  to  any  true  earthly  end,  were  no 
less  abundant.  Doctors  who  made  great  fortunes  out 
of  dainty  remedies  for  imaginary  disorders  that  never 
existed,  smiled  upon  their  courtly  patients  in  the  ante- 
chambers of  Monseigneur.  Projectors  who  had  dis- 
covered every  kind  of  remedy  for  the  little  evils  with 
which  the  State  was  touched,  except  the  remedy  of  set- 
ting to  work  in  earnest  to  root  out  a single  sin,  poured 
their  distracting  babble  into  any  ears  they  could  lay  bold 
of,  at  the  reception  of  Mbnsiegneur.  Unbelieving 
Philosophers,  who  were  remodelling  the  world  with 
words,  and  making  card-towers  of  Babel  to  scale  the 
skies  with,  talked  with  Unbelieving  Chemists  who  had 
an  eye  on  the  transmutation  of  metals,  at  this  wonder- 
ful gathering  accumulated  by  Monseigneur.  Exquisite 
gentlemen  of  the  finest  breeding,  which  was  at  that  re> 
markable  time — and  has  been  since — to  be  known  by  its 
fruits  of  indifference  to  every  natural  subject  of  human 
interest,  were  in  the  most  exemplary  state  of  exhaustion, 
at  the  hotel  of  Monseigneur.  Such  homes  had  these 
various  notabilities  left  behind  them  in  the  fine  world  of 
Paris,  that  the  Spies  among  .the  assembled  devotees  of 


94 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Monseigneur— forming  a goodly  half  of  the  polite  com- 
pany— would  have  found  it  hard  to  discover  among  the 
angels  of  that  sphere  one  solitary  wife,  who,  in  her  man- 
ners and  appearance,  owned  to  being  a Mother.  Indeed, 
except  for  the  mere  act  of  bringing  a troublesome  crea- 
ture in  this  world — which  does  not  go  far  towards  the 
realisation  of  the  name  of  mother— -there  was  no  such 
thing  known  to  the  fashion.  Peasant  women  kept  the 
unfashionable  babies  close,  and  brought  them  up ; and 
charming  grand -mammas  of  sixty  dressed  and  supped  as 
at  twenty. 

The  leprosy  of  unreality  disfigured  every  human  crea- 
ture in  attendance  upon  Monseigneur.  In  the  outer- 
most room  were  half  a dozen  exceptional  people  who 
had  had,  for  a few  years,  some  vague  misgiving  in  them 
that  things  in  general  were  going  rather  wrong.  As  a 
promising  way  of  setting  them  right,  half  of  the  half- 
dozen  had  become  members  of  a fantastic  sect  of  Con- 
vulsionists,  and  were  even  then  considering  within  them- 
selves whether  they  should  foam,  rage,  roar,  and  turn 
cataleptic  on  the  spot— thereby  setting  up  a highly  in- 
telligible finger-post  to  the  Future,  for  Monseigneur's 
guidance.  Besides  these  Dervishes,  were  other  three 
who  had  rushed  into  another  sect,  which  mended  matters 
with  a jargon  about  “the  Centre  of  truth  : ” holding 
that  Man  dtad  got  out  of  the  Centre  of  truth — which  did 
not  need  much  demonstration — but  had  not  got  out  of 
the  Circumference,  and  that  he  was  to  be  kept  from  fly- 
ing out  of  the  Circumference,  and  was  even  to  be  shoved 
back  into  the  Centre,  by  fasting  and  seeing  of  spirits. 
Among  these,  accordingly,  much  discoursing  with  spirits 
went  on — and  it  did  a world  of  good  which  never  became 
manifest. 

But,  the  comfort  was,  that  all  the  company  at  the 
grand  hotel  of  Monseigneur  were  perfectly  dressed.  If 
the  Day  of  Judgment  had  only  been  ascertained  to  be  a 
dress  day , everybody  there  would  have  been  eternally 
correct.  Such  frizzling  and  powdering  and  sticking  up 
of  hair,  such  delicate  complexions  artificially  preserved 
and  mended,  such  gallant  swords  to  look  at,  and  such 
delicate  honour  to  the  sense  of  smell,  would  surely  keep 
anything  going,  for  ever  and  ever.  The  exquisite  gen- 
tlemen of  the  finest  breeding  wore  little  pendent  trinkets 
that  chinked  as  they  languidly  moved  ; these  golden 
fetters  rang  like  precious  little  bells  ; and  what  with 
that  ringing,  and  with  the  rustle  of  silk  and  brocade 
and  fine  linen,  there  was  a flutter  in  the  air  that  fanned 
Saint  Antoine  and  his  devouring  hunger  far  away. 

Dress  was  the  one  unfailing  talisman  and  charm  used 
for  keeping  all  things  in  their  places.  Everybody  was 
dressed  for  a Fancy  Ball  that  was  never  to  leave  off. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


95 


From  the  Palace  of  Tuileries,  through  Monseigneur  and 
the  whole  Court,  though  the  Chambers,  the  Tribunals  of 
Justice,  and  all  society  (expect  the  scarecrows),  the 
Fancy  Ball  descended  to  the  Common  Executioner  : who, 
in  pursuance  of  the  charm,  was  required  to  officiate 
“frizzled,  powdered,  in  a golddaced  coat,  pumps,  and 
white  silk  stockings/’  At  the  gallows  and  the  wheel — 
the  axe  was  a rarity — Monsieur  Paris,  as  it  was  the 
episcopal  mode  among  his  brother  Professors  of  the 
provinces,  Monsieur  Orleans,  and  the  rest,  to  call  him, 
presided  in  this  dainty  dress.  And  who  among  the  com- 
pany at  Monseigneur’s  reception  in  that  seventeen  hun- 
dred and  eightieth  year  of  our  Lord,  could  possibly 
doubt,  that  a system  rooted  in  a frizzled  hangman,  pow- 
dered, gold-laced,  pumped,  and  white- silk  stockinged, 
would  see  the  very  stars  out  ! 

Monseigneur  having  eased  his  four  men  of  their 
burdens  and  taken  his  chocolate,  caused  the  doors  of 
the  Holiest  of  Holiests  to  be  thrown  open,  and  issued 
forth.  Then,  what  submission,  what  cringing  and  fawn- 
ing, what  servility,  what  abject  humiliation  ! As  to  bow- 
ing down  in  body  and  spirit,  nothing  in  that  way  was  left 
for  Heaven — which  may  have  been  one  among  other 
reasons  why  the  worshippers  of  Monseigneur  never 
troubled  it. 

Bestowing  a word  of  promise  here,  and  a smile  there, 
a whisper  on  one  heavy  slave  and  a wave  of  the  hand  on 
another,  Monseigneur  affably  passed  through  his  rooms 
to  the  remote  region  of  the  Circumference  of  Truth. 
There,  Monseigneur  turned,  and  came  back  again,  and 
so  in  due  course  of  time  got  himself  shut  up  in  his  sanc- 
tuary by  the  chocolate  sprites,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  show  being  over,  the  flutter  in  the  air  became 
quite  a little  storm,  and  the  precious  little  bells  went 
ringing  down- stairs.  There  was  soon  but  one  person 
left  of  all  the  crowd,  and  he,  with  his  hat  under  his  arm 
and  his  snuff-box  in  his  hand,  slowly  passed  among  the 
mirrors  on  his  way  out. 

“ I devote  you,”  said  this  person,  stopping  at  the  last 
door  on  his  way,  and  turning  in  the  direction  of  the 
sanctuary,  “ to  the  Devil  ! ” 

With  that,  he  shook  the  snuff  from  his  fingers  as  if 
he  had  shaken  the  dust  from  his  feet,  and  quietly  walked 
down-stairs. 

He  was  a man  of  about  sixty,  handsomely  dressed, 
haughty  in  manner,  and  with  a face  like  a fine  mask.  A 
face  of  a transparent  paleness  ; every  feature  in  it  clearly 
defined  ; one  set  expression  on  it.  The  nose,  beautifully 
formed  otherwise,  was  very  slightly  pinched  at  the  top 
of  each  nostril.  In  those  two  compressions,  or  dints,  the 


96 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


only  little  change  that  the  face  ever  showed,  resided. 
They  persisted  in  changing  colour  sometimes,  and  they 
would  be  occasionally  dilated  and  contracted  by  some- 
thing like  a faint  pulsation  ; then,  they  gave  a look  of 
treachery,  and  cruelty,  to  the  whole  countenance.  Ex- 
amined with  attention*  its  capacity  of  helping  such  a 
look  was  to  be  found  in  the  line  of  the  mouth,  and  the 
lines  of  the  orbits  of  the  eyes,  being  much  too  horizon- 
tal  and  thin ; still,  in  the  effect  the  face  made,  it  was  a 
handsome  face,  and  a remarkable  one. 

Its  owner  went  down -stairs  into  the  court-yard,  got 
into  his  carriage,  and  drove  away.  Not  many  people  had 
talked  with  him  at  the  reception  ; he  had  stood  in  a lit- 
tle space  apart,  and  Monseigneur  might  have  been 
warmer  in  his  manner.  It  appeared,  under  the  circum- 
stances, rather  agreeable  to  him  to  see  the  common-peo 
pie  dispersed  before  his  horses,  and  often  barely  escap 
ing  from  being  run  down.  His  man  drove  as  if  he  were 
charging  an  enemy,  and  the  furious  recklessness  of  the 
man  brought  no  check  into  the  face,  or  to  the  lips,  of  the 
master.  The  complaint  had  sometimes  made  itself  audi- 
ble, even  in  that  deaf  city  and  dumb  age,  that,  in  the 
narrow  streets  without  footways,  the  fierce  patrician 
custom  of  hard  driving  endangered  and  maimed  the 
mere  vulgar  in  a barbarous  manner.  But,  few  cared 
enough  for  that  to  think  of  it  a second  time,  and  in  this 
matter,  as  in  all  others,  the  common  wretches  were  left 
to  get  out  of  their  difficulties  as  they  could. 

With  a.  wild  rattle  and  chatter,  and  an  inhuman  aban- 
donment of  consideration  not  easy  to  be  understood  in 
these  days,  the  carriage  dashed  through  streets  and 
swept  round  corners,  with  women  screaming  before  it, 
and  men  clutching  each  other  and  clutching  children  ouf 
of  its  way.  At  last,  swooping  at  a street  corner  by  a 
fountain,  one  of  its  wheels  came  to  a sickening  little  jolt, 
and  there  was  a loud  cry  from  a number  of  voices,  and 
the  horses  reared  and  plunged. 

But  for  the  latter  inconvenience,  the  carriage  probably 
would  not  have  stopped  ; carriages  were  oftei\  known  to 
drive  on,  and  leave  their  wounded  behind,  and  why  not? 
But,  the  frightened  valet  had  got  down  in  a hurry,  and 
there  were  twenty  hands  at  the  horses’  bridles. 

“What  has  gone  wrong?”  said  Monsieur,  calmly- 
looking  out. 

A tall  man  in  a nightcap  had  caught  up  a bundle  from 
among  the  feet  of  the  horses,  and  had  laid  it  on  the 
basement  of  the  fountain,  and  was  down  in  the  mud  and 
wet,  howling  over  it  like  a wild  animal. 

“Pardon,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  ! ” said  a ragged  and 
submissive  man,  “ it  is  a child.” 


A tale  op  two  cities. 


97 


''  Why  does  he  make  that  abominable  noise?  Is  it  his 
child?  ” 

“ Excuse  me, Monsieur  the  Marquis — it  is  a pity — yes.” 

The  fountain  was  a little  removed  ; for  the  street 
opened,  where  it  was,  into  a space  some  ten  or  twelve 
yards  square.  As  the  tall  man  suddenly  got  up  from  the 
ground,  and  came  running  at  the  carriage,  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  clapped  his  hands  for  an  instant  on  his 
sword-hilt. 

“ Killed  ! ” shrieked  the  man,  in  wild  desperation,  ex- 
tending both  arms  at  their  length  above  his  head,  and 
staring  at  him.  “ Dead  ! ” 

The  people  closed  round,  and  looked  at  Monsieur  the 
Marquis.  There  was  nothing  revealed  by  the  many  eyes 
that  looked  at  him  but  watchfulness  and  eagerness  ; 
there  was  no  visible  menacing  or  anger.  Neither  did 
the  people  say  anything  ; after  the  first  cry,  they  had 
been  silent,  and  they  remained  so.  The  voice  of  the 
submissive  man  who  had  spoken,  was  fiat  and  tame  in 
its  extreme  submission.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  ran  his 
eyes  over  them  all,  as  if  they  had  been  mere  rats  come 
out  of  their  holes. 

He  took  out  his  purse.  ‘ 

“ It  is  extraordinary  to  me,”  said  he,  “ that  you  peo- 
ple cannot  take  care  of  yourselves  and  your  children. 
One  or  the  other  of  you  is  tor  ever  in  the  way.  How  do 
1 know  what  injury  you  have  done  my  horses.  See  1 
Give  him  that.” 

He  threw  out  a gold  coin  for  the  valet  to  pick  up,  and 
all  the  heads  craned  forward  that  all  the  eyes  might 
look  down  at  it  as  it  fell.  The  tall  man  called  out  again 
with  a most  unearthly  cry,  “ Dead  Vf 

He  was  arrested  by  the  quick  arrival  of  another  man, 
for  whom  the  rest  made  way.  On  seeing  him,  the  mis- 
erable creature  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  sobbing  and  cry- 
ing, and  pointing  to  the  fountain,  where  some  women 
were  stooping  over  the  motionless  bundle,  and  moving 
gently  about  it.  They  were  as  silent,  however,  as  the 
men. 

“ I know  all,  I know  all,”  said  the  last  comer.  “ Be 
a brave  man,  my  Gaspard  1 It  is  better  for  tbe  poor  lit- 
tle plaything  to  die  so,  than  to  live.  It  has  died  in  a 
moment  without  pain.  Could  it  have  lived  an  hour  as 
happily  ? ” 

“ You  are  a philosopher,  you  there,”  said  the  Marquis, 
smiling.  “ How  do  they  call  you  ? ” 

“ They  call  me  Defarge.” 

“ Of  what  trade  ? ” 

Monsieur  the  Marquis,  vendor  of  wine.” 

16  Pick  up  that,  philosopher  and  vendor  of  wine,”  said 
-E  * VOL.  11 


98 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tlie  Marquis,  throwing  him  another  gold  coin,  “ and 
spend  it  as  you  will.  The  horses  there  ; are  they  right  ? ” 

Without  deigning  to  look  at  the  assemblage  a second 
time.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and 
was  just  being  driven  away  with  the  air  of  a gentleman 
who  had  accidentally  broken  some  common  thing,  and 
had  paid  for  it,  and  could  afford  to  pay  for  it  ; when 
his  ease  was  suddenly  disturbed  by  a coin  flying  into  his 
carriage,  and  ringing  on  its  floor. 

“ Hold  ! ” said  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  Hold  the 
horses  { Who  threw  that?  ” 

He  looked  to  the  spot  where  Defarge  the  vendor  of 
wine  had  stood  a moment  before  ; but  the  wretched 
father  was  grovelling  on  his  face  on  the  pavement  in 
that  spot,  and  the  figure  that  stood  beside  him  was  the 
figure  of  a dark  and  stout  woman,  knitting. 

“ You  dogs  ! ” said  the  Marquis,  but  smoothly,  and 
with  an  unchanged  front,  except  as  to  the  spots  on  his 
nose  : “ I would  ride  over  any  of  you  very  willingly, 
and  exterminate  you  from  the  earth.  If  I knew  which 
rascal  threw  at  the  carriage,  and  if  that  brigand  were 
sufficiently  near  it,  he  should  be  crushed  under  the 
wheels.  ” 

So  cowed  was  their  condition,  and  so  long  and  hard 
their  experience  of  what  such  a man  could  do  to  them, 
within  the  law  and  beyond  it,  that  not  a voice,  or  a hand, 
or  even  an  eye  was  raised.  Among  the  men,  not  one. 
But  the  women  who  stood  knitting  looked  up  steadily, 
and  looked  the  Marquis  in  the  face.  It  was  not  for  his 
dignity  to  notice  it ; his  contemptuous  eyes  passed  over 
her,  and  over  all  the  other  rats  ; and  he  leaned  back 
in  his  seat  again,  and  gave  the  word  “Go  on!” 

He  was  driven  on,  and  other  carriages  came  whirl- 
ing by  in  quick  succession  ; the  Minister,  the  State-Pro- 
jector, the  Farmer-General,  the  Doctor,  the  Lawyer,  the 
Ecclesiastic,  the  Grand  Opera,  the  Comedy,  the  whole 
Fancy  Ball,  in  a bright  continuous  flow,  came  whirling 
by.  The  rats  had  crept  out  of  their  holes  to  look  on, 
and  they  remained  looking  on  for  hours  ; soldiers  and 
police  often  passing  between  them  and  the  spectacle,  and 
making  a barrier  behind  which  they  slunk,  and  through 
which  they  peeped.  The  father  had  long  ago  taken  up 
his  bundle  and  hidden  himself  away  with  it,  when  the 
woman  who  had  tended  the  bundle  while  it  lay  on  the 
base  of  the  fountain,  sat  there  watching  the  running  of 
the  water,  and  the  rolling  of  the  Fancy  Ball — when  the 
one  woman  who  had  stood  conspicuous,  knitting,  still 
knitted  on  with  the  steadfastness  of  Fate.  The  water 
of  the  fountain  ran,  the  swift  river  ran,  the  day  ran  into 
evening,  so  much  life  in  the  city  ran  into  death  accord- 
ing to  rule,  time  and  tide  waited  for  no  man,  the  rats  were 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


sleeping  close  together  in  their  dark  holes  again,  the 
Fancy  Ball  was  lighted  up  at  supper,  all  things  ran  their 

course. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Monseigneur  in  the  Country . 

A beautiful  landscape,  with  the  corn  bright  in  it  but 
not  abundant.  Patches  of  poor  rye  where  corn  should 
have  been,  patches  of  poor  peas  and  beans,  patches  of 
most  coarse  vegetable  substitutes  for  wheat.  On  inani- 
mate nature,  as  on  the  men  and  women  who  cultivated 
it,  a prevalent  tendency  towards  an  appearance  of  vege- 
tating unwillingly — a dejected  disposition  to  g’ive  up 
and  wither  away. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  in  his  travelling  carriage  (which 
might  have  been  lighter),  conducted  by  four  post-horses 
and  two  postilions,  fagged  up  a steep  hill.  A blush  on 
the  countenance  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis  was  no  im- 
peachment of  his  high  breeding  ; it  was  not  from  within  ; 
it  was  occasioned  by  an  external  circumstance  beyond  his 
control — the  setting  sun. 

The  sunset  struck  so  brilliantly  into  the  travelling 
carriage  when  it  gained  the  hill-top,  that  its  occupant 
was  steeped  in  crimson.  “ It  will  die  out,”  said  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis,  glancing  at  his  hands,  “ directly.  ” 

In  effect,  the  sun  was  so  low  that  it  dipped  at  the  mo- 
ment. When  the  heavy  drag  had  been  adjusted  to  the 
wheel,  and  the  carriage  slid  down  hill,  with  a cinderous 
smell,  in  a cloud  of  dust,  the  red  glow  departed  quickly  ; 
the  sun  and  the  Marquis  going  down  together,  there  was 
no  glow  left  when  the  drag  was  taken  off. 

But,  there  remained  a broken  country,  bold  and  open, 
a little  village  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  a broad  sweep 
and  rise  beyond  it,  a church -tower,  a wind-mill,  a forest 
for  the  chase,  and  a crag  with  a fortress  on  it  used  as  a 
prison.  Round  upon  all  these  darkening  objects  as  the 
night  drew  on,  the  Marquis  looked,  writh  the  air  of  one 
who  was  coming  near  home. 

The  village  had  its  one  poor  street,  with  its  poor  brew- 
ery, poor  tannery,  poor  tavern,  poor  stable-yard  for  re. 
lays  of  post-horses,  poor  fountain,  all  usual  poor  appoint- 
ments. It  had  its  poor  people  too.  All  its  people  were 
poor,  and  many  of  them  were  sitting  at  their  doors, 
shredding  spare  onions  and  the  like  for  supper,  while 
many  were  at  the  fountain,  washing  leaves,  and  grasses, 
and  any  such  small  yieidings  of  the  earth  that  could  be 
eaten.  Expressive  signs  of  what  made  them  poor,  were 
not  wanting ; the  tax  for  the  state,  the  tax  for  the 


100  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

clmrch,  the  tax  for  the  lord,  tax  local  and  tax  general, 
were  to  he  paid  here  and  to  be  paid  there,  according  to 
solemn  inscription  in  the  little  village,  until  the  wonder 
was,  that  there  was  any  village  left  unswallowed. 

Few  children  were  to  be  seen,  and  no  dogs.  As  to  the 
men  and  women,  their  choice  on  earth  was  stated  in  the 
prospect — Life  on  the  lowest  terms  that  could  sustain  it, 
down  in  the  little  village  under  the  mill  ; or  captivity 
and  Death  in  the  dominant  prison  on  the  crag. 

Heralded  by  a courier  in  advance,  and  by  the  cracking 
of  his  postilions'  whips,  which  twined  snake-like  about 
their  heads  in  the  evening  air,  as  if  he  came  attended 
by  the  Furies,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  drew  up  in  his 
travelling  carrriage  at  the  posting-house  gate.  It  was 
hard  by  the  fountain,  and  the  peasants  suspended  their 
operations  to  look  at  him.  He  looked  at  them,  and  saw 
in  them,  without  knowing  it,  the  slow  sure  filing  down 
of  misery-worn  face  and  figure,  that  was  to  make  the 
meagreness  of  Frenchmen  an  English  superstition  which 
should  survive  the  truth  through  the  best  part  of  a hun- 
dred years. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  cast  his  eyes  over  the  submis- 
sive faces  that  drooped  before  him,  as  the  like  of  himself 
had  drooped  before  Monseigneur  of  the  Court — only  the 
difference  was,  that  these  faces  drooped  merely  to  suffer 
and  not  to  propitiate— when  a grizzled  mender  of  the 
roads  joined  the  group. 

“ Bring  me  hither  that  fellow  ! " said  the  Marquis  to 
the  courier. 

The  fellow  was  brought,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  other 
fellows  closed  round  to  look  and  listen,  in  the  manner 
of  the  people  at  the  Paris  fountain. 

“ I passed  you  on  the  road  ? " 

“ Monseigneur,  it  is  true.  I had  the  honour  of  being 
passed  the  road. 

“ Coming  up  the  hill,  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  both  ?” 

“ Monseigneur,  it  is  true." 

“What  did  you  look  at,  so  fixedly?" 

“ Monseigneur,  I looked  at  the  man." 

He  stooped  a little,  and  with  his  tattered  blue  cap 
pointed  under  the  carriage.  All  his  fellows  stooped  to 
look  under  the  carriage. 

“ What  man,  pig?  And  why  look  there?" 

“ Pardon,  Monseigneur  ; he  swung  by  the  chain  of  the 
shoe — the  drag." 

“ Who?"  demanded  the  traveller. 

“ Monseigneur,  the  man." 

“ May  the  Devil  carry  away  these  idiots  1 How  do 
you  call  the  man  ? You  know  all  the  men  of  this  part 
of  the  country.  Who  was  he  ? " 


HE  STOOPED  A LITTLE,  AND  WITH  HIS  TATTERED  BLUE  CAP  POINTED  UNDER  THE  CARRIAGE. 

—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  .Eleven,  page  101 


102 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“Your  clemency,  Monsiegneur  ! He  was  not  of  this 
part  of  the  country.  Of  all  the  days  of  my  life,  I never 
saw  him.” 

“ Swinging  by  the  chain?  To  be  suffocated  ? “ 

“ With  your  gracious  permission,  that  was  the  wonder 
of  it,  Monseigneur.  His  head  hangingover — like  this  !” 

He  turned  himself  sideways  to  the  carriage,  and 
leaned  back,  with  his  face  thrown  up  to  the  sky,  and 
his  head  hanging  down  ; then  recovered  himself,  fumbled 
with  his  cap,  and  made  a bow. 

“ What  was  he  like?” 

“ Monseigneur,  he  was  whiter  than  the  miller.  All 
covered  with  dust,  white  as  a spectre,  tail  as  a spectre  l ” 

The  picture  produced  an  immense  sensation  in  the 
little  crowd  : but  all  eyes,  without  comparing  notes 
with  other  eyes,  looked  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  Per- 
haps, to  observe  whether  he  had  any  spectre  on  his 
conscience. 

“Truly,  you  did  well,”  said  the  Marquis,  felicitously 
sensible  that  such  vermin  were  not  to  ruffle  him,  “ to 
see  a thief  accompanying  my  carriage,  and  not  open  that 
great  mouth  of  yours.  Bah  ! Put  him  aside,  Monsieur 
Gabelle  !” 

Monsieur  Gabelle  was  the  postmaster,  and  some  other 
taxing  functionary,  united  ; he  had  come  out  with  great 
obsequiousness  to  assist  at  this  examination,  and  had 
held  the  examined  by  the  drapery  of  his  arm  in  an  official 
manner. 

“ Bah  ! Go  aside  l ” said  Monsieur  Gabelle. 

“ Lay  hands  on  this  stranger  if  he  seeks'  to  lodge  in 
your  village  to-night,  and  be  sure  that  his  business  is 
honest,  Gabelle.” 

“ Monseigneur,  I am  flattered  to  devote  myself  to  your 
orders.  ” 

“ Did  he  run  away,  fellow  ? — where  is  that  Accursed?” 

The  accursed  was  already  under  the  carriage  with 
some  half-dozen  particular  friends,  pointing  out  the  chain 
with  his  blue  cap.  Some  half-dozen  other  particular 
friends  promptly  haled  him  out,  and  presented  him 
breathless  to  Monsieur  the  Marquis. 

“ Did  the  man  run  away.  Dolt,  when  we  stopped  for 
the  drag  ? ” 

“ Monseigneur,  he  precipitated  himself  over  the  hill- 
side, head  first,  as  a person  plunges  into  the  river.” 

“ See  to  it,  Gabelle.  Go  on  ! * 

The  half-dozen  who  were  peering  at  the  chain  were 
still  among  the  wheels,  like  sheep  ; the  wheels  turned  so 
suddenly  that  they  were  lucky  to  save  their  skins  and 
bones ; they  had  very  li  ttle  else  to  save,  or  they  might 
not  have  been  so  fortunate. 

The  burst  with  which  the  carriage  started  out  of  the 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


103 


village  and  up  the  rise  beyond,  was  soon  checked  by  the 
steepness  of  the  hill.  Gradually,  it  subsided  to  a foot 
pace,  swinging  and  lumbering  upward  among  the  many 
sweet  scents  of  a summer  night.  The  postilions,  with  a 
thousand  gossamer  gnats  circling  about  them  in  lieu  of 
the  Furies,  quietly  mended  the  points  to  the  lashes  of 
their  whips  ; the  valet  walked  by  the  horses  ; the  cou- 
rier was  audible,  trotting  on  ahead  into  the  dim  distance. 

At  the- steepest  point  of  the  hill  there  was  a little  burial- 
ground,  with  a Cross  and  a new  large  figure  of  Our  Saviour 
on  it ; it  was  a poor  figure  in  wood,  done  by  some  inex- 
perienced rustic  carver, but  he  had  studied  the  figure  from 
the  life  — his  own  life,  maybe  — for  it  was  dreadfully 
spare  and  thin. 

To  this  distressful  emblem  of  a great  distress  that  had 
long  been  growing  worse,  and  was  not  at  its  worst,  a 
woman  was  kneeling.  She  turned  her  head  as  the  car- 
riage came  up  to  her,  rose  quickly,  and  presented  herself 
at  the  carriage-door. 

‘ ‘ It  is  you,  Monseigneur  ! Monseigneur  a petition.” 

With  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  but  with  his  un- 
changeable face.  Monseigneur  looked  out. 

“ How,  then  ! What  is  it?  Always  petitions  ! 99 

“ Monseigneur.  For  the  love  of  the  great  God  ! My 
husband,  the  forester.” 

“ What  of  your  husband,  the  forester  ? Always  the 
same  with  you  people.  He  cannot  pay  something  ! ” 

“ He  has  paid  all,  Monseigneur.  He  is  dead.” 

“ Well  ! He  is  quiet.  Can  I restore  him  to  you  ? ” 

“ Alas  ho,  Monseigneur  i But  he  lies  yonder,  under  a 
little  heap  of  poor  grass.  ” 

“ Well?” 

“ Monseigneur,  there  are  so  many  little  heaps  of  poor 
grass  ! 99 

* ‘ Again,  well  ?” 

She  looked  an  old  woman,  but  was  young.  Her  man- 
ner was  one  of  passionate  grief  ; by  turns  she  clasped 
her  veinous  and  knotted  hands  together  with  wild  en- 
ergy, and  laid  one  of  them  on  the  carriage-door— ten- 
derly, caressingly,  as  if  it  had  been  a human  breast,  and 
could  be  expected  to  feel  the  appealing  touch. 

“ Monseigneur,  hear  me  ! Monseigneur  hear  my  pe- 
tition ! My  husband  died  of  want ; so  many  die  of  want ; 
so  many  more  will  die  of  want.” 

“ Again,  well  ? Can  I feed  them  ?” 

4 4 Monseigneur,  the  good  God  knows  ; but  I don’t  ask 
it.  My  petition  is,  that  a morsel  of  stone  or  wood,  with 
my  husband’s  name,  may  be  placed  over  him  to  show 
where  he  lies.  Otherwise,  the  place  will  be  quickly  for- 
gotten, it  will  never  be  found  when  I am  dead  of  the 
same  malady,  I shall  be  laid  under  some  other  heap  of 


104 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


poor  grass.  Monseigneur,  they  are  so  many,  they  in- 
crease  so  fast,  there  is  so  much  want.  Monseigneur  ! 
Monseigneur  1 ” 

The  valet  had  put  her  away  from  the  door,  the  carriage 
had  broken  into  a brisk  trot,  the  postilions  liad  quickened 
the  pace,  she  was  left  far  behind,  and  Monseigneur,  again 
escorted  by  the  Furies,  was  rapidly  diminishing  the 
league  or  two  of  distance  that  remained  between  him 
and  his  chateau. 

The  sweet  scents  of  the  summer  night  rose  all  around 
him,  and  rose,  as  the  rain  falls,  impartially,  on  the  dusty, 
ragged,  and  toil-worn  group  at  the  fountain  not  far 
away  ; to  whom  the  mender  of  roads,  with  the  aid  of  the 
blue  cap  without  which  he  was  nothing,  still  enlarged 
upon  his  man  like  a spectre,  as  long  as  they  could  bear 
it.  By  degrees,  as  they  could  bear  no  more,  they  drop- 
ped o*ff  one  by  one,  and  lights  twinkled  in  little  case- 
ments ; which  lights,  as  the  casements  darkened,  and 
more  stars  came  out,  seemed  to  have  shot  up  into  the 
sky  instead  of  having  been  extinguished. 

The  shadow  of  a large  high-roofed  house,  and  of  many 
overhanging  trees,  was  upon  Monsieur  the  Marquis  by 
that  time  ; and  the  shadow  was  exchanged  for  the  light 
of  a flambeau,  as  his  carriage  stopped,  and  the  great 
door  of  his  chateau  was  opened  to  him. 

“ Monsieur  Charles,  whom  I expect ; is  he  arrived 
from  England  ? ” 

“ Monseigneur,  not  yet.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Gorgon's  Head. 

It  was  a heavy  mass  of  building,  that  chateau  of  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis,  with  a large  stone  court-yard  before 
it,  and  two  stone  sweeps  of  staircase  meeting*  in  a stone 
terrace  before  the  principal  door.  A stony  business  al- 
together, with  heavy  stone  balustrades,  and  stone  urns, 
and  stone  flowers,  and  stone  faces  of  men,  and  stone 
heads  of  lions,  in  all  directions. . As  if  the  Gorgon’s  head 
had  surveyed  it,  when  it  was  finished,  two  centuries  ago. 

Up  the  broad  flight  of  shallow  steps,  Monsieur  the 
Marquis,  flambeau  preceded,  went  from  his  carriage, 
sufficiently  disturbing  the  darkness  to  elicit  loud  remon- 
strance from  an  owl  in  the  roof  of  the  great  pile  of 
stable-building  away  among  the  trees.  All  else  was  sc 
quiet,  that  the  flambeau  carried  up  the  steps,  and  the 
other  flambeau  held  at  the  great  door,  burnt  as  if  they 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


105 


were  in  a close  room  of  state,  instead  of  being  in  the 
open  niglit  air.  Other  sound  than  the  owl’s  voice  there 
was  none,  save  the  falling  of  a fountain  into  a stone 
basin  ; for,  it  was  one  those  dark  nights  that  hold  their 
breath  by  the  hour  together,  and  then  heave  a long  low 
sigh,  and  hold  their  breath  again. 

The  great  door  clanged  behind  him,  and  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  crossed  a hall  grim  with  certain  old  boar-spears, 
swords,  and  knives  of  the  chase  ; grimmer  with  certain 
heavy  riding-rods  and  riding  whips,  of  which  many  a 
peasant,  gone  to  his  benefactor  Death,  had  felt  the 
weight  when  his  lord  was  angry. 

Avoiding  the  larger  rooms,  which  were  dark  and  made 
fast  for  the  night,  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  with  his  flam- 
beau-bearer going  on  before,  went  up  the  staircase  to  a 
door  in  a corridor.  This  thrown  open  admitted  him  to 
his  own  private  apartment  of  three  rooms  ; his  bed- 
chamber and  two  others.  High  vaulted  rooms  with  cool 
uncarpeted  doors,  great  dogs  upon  the  hearths  for  the 
burning  of  wood  in  winter  time,  and  all  luxuries  be- 
fitting the  state  of  a marquis  in  a luxurious  age  and 
country.  The  fashion  of  the  last  Louis  but  one,  of  the 
line  that  was  never  to  break — the  fourteenth  Louis— 
was  conspicuous  in  their  rich  furniture  ; but  it  was 
diversified  by  many  objects  that  were  illustrations  of  old 
pages  in  the  history  of  France. 

A supper-table  was  laid  for  two,  in  the  third  of  the 
rooms  ; a round  room,  in  one  of  the  chateau’s  four  ex- 
tinguisher-topped towers.  A small  lofty  room,  with  its 
window  wide  open,  and  the  wooden  jalousie-blinds 
closed,  so  that  the  dark  night  only  showed  in  slight  hori- 
zontal lines  of  black,  alternating  with  their  broad  lines 
of  stone  colour. 

“My  nephew,”  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  at  the  sup- 
jper  preparation  ; “ they  said  he  was  not  arrived.” 

Hor  was  he ; but,  he  had  been  expected  with  Mon- 
seigneur. 

“ Ah  ! It  is  not  probable  he  will  arrive  to-night ; 
nevertheless,  leave  the  table  as  it  is.  I shall  be  ready 
in  a quarter  of  an  hour.  ” 

In  a quarter  of  an  hour,  Monseigneur  was  ready,  and 
sat  down  alone  to  his  sumptuous  and  choice  supper. 
His  chair  was  opposite  to  the  window,  and  he  had  taken 
his  soup,  and  was  raising  his  glass  of  Bordeaux  to  his  lips, 
when  he  put  it  down. 

“ What  is  that  ?”  he  calmly  asked,  looking  with  atten- 
tion at  the  horizontal  lines  of  back  and  stone  colour. 

‘ ‘ Monseigneur  ? Th at  ? ” 

“ Outside  the  blinds.  Open  the  blinds.” 

It  was  done. 

“Well?” 


106 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Monseigneur,  it  is  nothing.  The  trees  and  the  night 
are  all  that  are  here.” 

The  servant  who  spoke,  had  thrown  the  blinds  wide, 
had  looked  out  into  the  vacant  darkness,  and  stood,  with 
that  blank  behind  him,  looking  round  for  instructions. 

“Good,”  said  the  imperturbable  master.  “Close 
them  again.” 

That  was  done  too,  and  the  Marquis  went  on  with  his 
supper.  He  was  half  way  through  it,  when  he  again 
stopped  with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  hearing  the  sound  of 
wheels.  It  came  on  briskly,  and  came  up  to  the  front  of 
the  chateau. 

“ Ask  who  is  arrived.” 

It  was  the  nephew  of  Monseigneur.  He  had  been 
some  few  leagues  behind  Monseigneur,  early  in  the  after- 
noon. He  had  diminished  the  distance  rapidly,  but  not 
so  rapidly  as  to  come  up  with  Monseigneur  on  the  road. 
He  hadlieard  of  Monseigneur,  at  the  posting-houses,  as 
being  before  him. 

He  was  to  be  told  (said  Monseigneur)  that  supper 
awaited  him  then  and  there,  and  that  he  was  prayed  to 
come  to  it.  In  a little  while,  he  came.  He  had  been 
known  in  England  as  Charles  Darnay. 

Monseigneur  received  him  in  a courtly  manner,  but 
they  did  not  shake  hands. 

“You  left  Paris  yesterday,  sir?  ” he  said  to  Monseig- 
neur, as  he  took  his  seat  at  table. 

‘ * Y esterday.  And  you  ? ” 

“ I come  direct.” 

“From  London?” 

“Yes.” 

“You  have  been  a long  time  coming,”  said  the  Mar 
quis,  with  a smile. 

“On  the  contrary  ; I come  direct.” 

“ Pardon  me  ! I mean,  not  a long  time  on  the  jour- 
ney ; a long  time  intending  the  journey.” 

“I  have  been  detained  by” — the  nephew  stopped  a 
moment  in  his  answer — “ various  business.” 

“ Without  doubt,”  said  the  polished  uncle. 

So  long  as  a servant  was  present,  no  other  words 
passed  between  them.  When  coffee  had  been  served 
and  they  were  alone  together,  the  nephew,  looking  at 
the  uncle  and  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  face  that  was  like 
a fine  mask,  opened  a conversation. 

“ I have  come  back,  sir,  as  you  anticipate,  pursuing 
the  object  that  took  me  away.  It  carried  me  into  great 
and  unexpected  peril  ; but  it  is  a sacred  object,  and  if  it 
had  carried  me  to  death  I hope  it  would  have  sustained 
me.” 

“ Not  to  death,”  said  the  uncle  ; “ it  is  not  necessary 
to  say,  to  death.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


107 


44  I doubt,  sir,”  returned  the  nephew,  44  whether,  if  it 
had  carried  me  to  the  utmost  brink  of  death,  you  would 
have  cared  to  stop  me  there.” 

The  deepened  marks  in  the  nose,  and  the  lengthening 
of  the  fine  straight  lines  in  the  cruel  face,  looked  omin- 
ous as  to  that  ; the  uncle  made  a graceful  gesture  of 
protest,  which  was  so  clearly  a slight  form  of  good 
breeding  that  it  was  not  reassuring. 

44  Indeed,  sir,”  pursued  the  nephew,  44  for  anything  I 
know,  you  may  have  expressly  worked  to  ""give  a more 
suspicious  appearance  to  the  suspicious  circumstances 
that  surrounded  md” 

“No,  no,  no,”  said  the  uncle,  pleasantly. 

44  But  however  that  may  be,”  resumed  the  nephew, 
glancing  at  him  with  deep  distrust,  4 4 1 know  that  your 
diplomacy  would  stop  me  by  any  means,  and  would  know 
no  scruple  as  to  means.” 

44  My  friend,  I told  you  so,”  said  the  uncle,  with  a fine 
pulsation  in  the  two  marks.  44  Do  me  the  favour  to  re- 
cal  that  I told  you  so,  long  ago.” 

44Xrecal  it.” 

44 Thank  you,”  said  the  Marquis — very  sweetly  in- 
deed. 

His  tone  lingered  in  the  air,  almost  like  the  tone  of  a 
musical  instrument. 

44  In  effect,  sir,”  pursued  the  nephew,  44 1 believe  it  to 
be  at  once  your  bad  fortune,  and  my  good  fortune,  that 
has  kept  me  out  of  a prison  in  France  here.  ” 

44 1 do  not  understand,”  returned  the  uncle,  sipping  his 
coffee.  44  Dare  I ask  you  to  explain  ? ” 

4 4 1 believe  that  if  you  were  not  in  disgrace  with  the 
court,  and  had  not  been  overshadowed  by  that  cloud  for 
years  past,  a letter  de  cachet  would  have  sent  me  to  some 
fortress  indefinitely.” 

44  It  is  possible,”  said  the  uncle  with  great  calmness. 
“For  the  honour  of  the  family,  I could  even  resolve  to 
incommode  you  to  that  extent.  Pray  excuse  me  ! ” 

44 1 perceive  that,  happily  for  me,  the  Reception  of  the 
day  before  yesterday  was,  as  usual,  a cold  one,”  observed 
the  nephew. 

44 1 would  not  say  happily,  my  friend,”  returned  the 
uncle,  with  refined  politeness  ; 44  I would  not  be  sure  of 
that.  A good  opportunity  for  consideration,  surrounded 
by  the  advantages  of  solitude,  might  influence  your  des- 
tiny to  far  greater  advantage  than  you  influence  it  for 
yourself.  But  it  is  useless  to  discuss  the  question.  I 
am,  as  you  say,  at  a disadvantage.  These  little  instru- 
ments of  correction,  these  gentle  aids  to  the  power  and 
honour  of  families,  these  slight  favours  that  might  so  in- 
commode you,  are  only  to  be  obtained  now  by  interest 


108 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  importunity.  They  are  sought  by  so  many,  and 
they  are  granted  (comparatively)  to  so  few  ! It  used 
not  to  he  so,  but  France  in  all  such  things  is  changed  for 
the  worse.  Our  not  remote  ancestors  held  the  right  of 
life  and  death  over  the  surrounding  vulgar.  From  this 
room,  many  such  dogs  have  been  taken  out  to  be  hanged  ; 
in  the  next  room  (my  bedroom),  one  fellow,  to  our  knowl- 
edge, was  poniarded  on  the  spot  for  professing  some  in- 
solent delicacy  respecting  his  daughter — his  daughter  ! 
We  have  lost  many  privileges  ; a new  philosophy  has 
become  the  mode  ; and  the  assertion  of  cur  station,  in 
these  days,  might  (I  do  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  would, 
but  might)  cause  us  real  inconvenience.  All  very  bad, 
very  bad  ! ” 

The  Marquis  took  a gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
shook  his  head  ; as  elegantly  despondent  as  he  could  be- 
comingly be,  of  a country  still  containing  himself,  that 
great  means  of  regeneration. 

“ We  have  so  asserted  our  station,  both  in  the  old  time 
and  in  the  modern  time  also,  ” said  the  nephew,  gloom- 
ily, “ that  I believe  our  name  to  be  more  detested  than 
any  name  in  France.” 

“Let  us  hope  so,”  said  the  uncle.  “Detestation  of 
the  high  is  the  involuntary  homage  of  the  low.” 

“ There  is  not,”  pursued  the  nephew,  in  his  former 
tone,  “ a face  I can  look  at,  in  all  this  country  round 
about  us,  which  looks  at  me  vrith  any  deference  on  it 
but  the  dark  deference  of  fear  and  slavery.” 

“ A compliment,”  said  the  Marquis,  “to  the  grandeur 
of  the  family,  merited  by  the  manner  in  which  t-he  fam- 
ily has  sustained  its  grandeur.  Hah  ! ” and  he  took 
another  gentle  little  pinch'  of  snuff,  and  lightly  crossed 
his  legs. 

But,  when  his  nephew,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  table, 
covered  his  eyes  thoughtfully  and  dejectedly  with  his 
hand,  the  fine  mask  looked  at  him  sideways  with  a 
stronger  concentration  of  keenness,  closeness,  and  dislike, 
than  was  comportable  with  its  wearer’s  assumption  of 
indifference. 

“ Repression  is  the  only  lasting  philosophy.  The  dark 
deference  of  fear  and  slavery,  my  friend,”  observed  the 
Marquis,  “ will  keep  the  dogs  obedient  to  the  whip, 
as  long  as  this  roof,”  looking  up  to  it,  “ shuts  out  the 
sky.” 

That  might  not  be  so  long  as  the  Marquis  supposed. 
If  a picture  of  the  chateau  as  it  was  to  be  a very  few 
years  hence,  and  of  fifty  like  it  as  they  too  were  to  be  a 
very  lew  years  hence,  could  have  been  shown  to  him  ihat 
night,  he  might  have  been  at  a loss  to  claim  his  own  from 
the  ghastly,  fire-charred,  plunder-wreckedruins.  As  for 
the  roof  he  vaunted,  he  might  have  found  that  shutting 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


109 


out  the  sky  in  a new  way — to  wit,  forever,  from  the  eyes 
of  the  bodies  into  which  its  lead  was  fired,  out  of  the 
barrels  of  a hundred  thousand  muskets. 

“ Meanwhile/’  said  the  Marquis,  “l  will  preserve  the 
honour  and  remose  of  the  family,  if  you  will  not.  But 
you  must  be  mtigued.  Shall  we  terminate  our  confer* 
ence  for  the  night  ? ” 

“ A moment  more.” 

“ An  hour,  if  you  please.” 

" Sir/'  said  the  nephew,  “ we  have  done  wrong,  and  are 
reaping  the  fruits  of  ^rong.” 

“We  have  done  wrong ?”  repeated  the  Marquis,  with 
an  inquiring  smile,  and  delicately  pointing,  first  to  his 
nephew,  then  to  himself. 

“ Our  family  ; our  honourable  family,  whose  honour  is 
of  so  much  account  to  both  of  us,  in  such  different  ways. 
Even  in  my  father’s  time,  we  did  a world  of  wrong,  in- 
juring every  human  creature  that  came  between  us  and 
our  pleasure,  whatever  it  was.  Why  need  I speak  of 
my  father's  time,  when  it  is  equally  yours  ? Can  I sepa- 
rate my  father’s  twin -brother,  joint  inheritor,  and  next 
successor,  from  himself  ? ” 

“ Death  has  done  that  ! ” said  the  Marquis. 

“ And  has  left  me,”  answered  the  nephew,  “ bound  to 
a system  that  is  frightful  to  me,  responsible  for  it,  but 
powerless  in  it ; seeking  to  execute  the  last  request  of 
my  dear  mother’s  lips,  and  obey  the  last  look  of  my  dear 
mother’s  eyes,  which  implored  me  to  have  mercy  and 
to  redress  ; and  tortured  by  seeking  assistance  and  power 
in  vain.  ” 

“ Seeking  them  from  me,  my  nephew,”  said  the  Mar- 
quis, touching  him  on  the  breast  with  his  forefinger — 
they  were  now  standing  by  the  hearth — “you  will  for 
ever  seek  them  in  vain,  be  assured.” 

Every  fine  straight  line  in  the  clear  whiteness  of  his 
face,  was  cruelly,  craftily,  and  closely  compressed,  while 
he  stood  looking  quietly  at  his  nephew,  with  his  snuff- 
box in  his  hand.  Once  again  he  touched  him  on  the 
breast,  as  though  his  finger  were  the  fine  point  of  a small 
sword,  with  which,  in  delicate  finesse,  he  ran  him 
through  the  body,  and  said, 

“ My  friend,  I will  die,  perpetuating  the  system  under 
which  I have  lived.” 

When  he  had  said  it,  he  took  a culminating  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  put  his  box  in  his  pocket. 

“Better  to  be  a rational  creature,”  he  added,  then, 
after  ringing  a small  bell  on  the  table,  “ and  accept  your 
natural  destiny.  But  you  are  lost,  Monsieur  Charles,  I see.  ” 

“ This  property  and  France  are  lost  to  me,”  said  the 
nephew,  sadly  ; “1  renounce  them.” 

“ Are  they  both  yours  to  renounce  ? France  may  be. 


110 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


but  is  the  property  ? It  is  scarcely  worth  mentioning ; 
but,  is  it  yet  ? ” 

“ I had  no  intention,  in  the  words  I used,  to  claim  it 
yet.  If  it  passed  to  me  from  you,  to-morrow — ” 

“ Which  I have  the  vanity  to  hope  is  not  probable.” 

ee  —or  twenty  years  hence — ” 

You  do  me  too  much  honour,”  said  the  Marquis  3 

still,  I prefer  that  supposition.” 

“ — I would  abandon  it,  and  live  otherwise  and  else 
where.  It  is  little  to  relinquish.  What  is  it  but  a wil 
derness  of  misery  and  ruin  ? ” 

“ Hah  !”  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  round  the  luxuri 
ous  room. 

“ To  the  eye  it  is  fair  enough,  here  ; but  seen  in  its 
integrity,  under  the  sky,  and  by  the  daylight,  it  Ts  a 
crumbling  tower  of  waste,  mismanagement,  extortion, 
debt,  mortgage,  oppression,  hunger,  nakedness,  and  suf 
fering.” 

“Hah!”  said  the  Marquis  again,  in  a well -satisfied 
manner. 

“If  it  ever  becomes  mine,  it  shall  be  put  into  some 
hands  better  qualified  to  free  it  slowly  (if  such  a thing 
is  possible)  from  the  weight  that  drags  it  down,  so  that 
the  miserable  people  who  cannot  leave  it  and  who  have 
been  long  wrung  to  the  last  point  of  endurance,  may,  in 
another  generation,  suffer  less  ; but  it  is  not  for  me. 
There  is  a curse  on  it,  and  on  all  this  land.” 

“And  you?”  said  the  uncle.  “Forgive  my  curi 
osity : do  you,  under  your  new  philosophy,  graciously 
intend  to  live  ? ” 

“I  must  do,  to  live,  what  others  of  my  countrymen, 
even  with  nobility  at  their  backs,  may  have  to  do  some 
day — work.” 

“ In  England,  for  example?” 

“Yes.  The  family  honour,  sir, us  safe  for  me  in  this 
country.  The  family  name  can  suffer  from  me  in  no 
other,  for  I hear  it  in  no  other.” 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  had  caused  the  adjoining  bed- 
chamber to  be  lighted.  It  now  shone  brightly,  through 
the  door  of  communication.  The  Marquis  looked  that 
way,  and  listened  for  the  retreating  step  of  his  valet. 

“ England  is  very  attractive  to  you,  seeing  how  indif- 
ferently you  have  prospered  there,”  lie  observed  then, 
turning  his  calm  face  to  his  nephew  with  a smile. 

“I  have  already  said,  that  for  my  prospering  there  i 
am  sensible  I may  indebted  to  you,  sir.  For  the  rest,  it 
is  my  Refuge.” 

“They  say,  those  boastful  English,  that  it  is  tli8 
Refuge  of  many.  You  know  a compatriot  who  has 
found  a Refuge  "there  ? A Doctor  ? ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Ill 


c y es  /* 

**  With  a daughter?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  Marquis.  “You  are  fatigued.  Good 
night  ? ” 

As  he  bent  his  head  in  his  most  courtly  manner,  there 
was  a secrecy  in  his  smiling  face,  and  he  conveyed  an 
air  of  mystery  to  those  words,  which  struck  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  his  nephew  forcibly.  At  the  same  time,  the 
thin  straight  lines  of  the  setting  of  the  eyes  and  the 
thin  straight  lips,  and  the  markings  in  the  nose,  curved 
with  a sarcasm  that  looked  handsomely  diabolic. 

“Yes,”  repeated  the  Marquis.  “A  Doctor  with  a 
daughter.  Yes.  So  commences  the  new  philosophy  ! 
You  are  fatigued.  Good  night ! ” 

It  would  have  been  of  as  much  avail  to  interrogate 
any  stone  face  outside  the  chateau  as  to  interrogate  that 
face  of  his.  _h  - nephew  looked  at  him,  in  vain,  in  pass- 
ing on  to  the  door. 

“ Good  night ! ” said  the  uncle.  “ I look  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  again  in  the  morning.  Good  repose  i 
Light  Monsieur  my  nephew  to  his  chamber  there  ! — And 
burn  Monsieur  my  nephew  in  his  bed,  if  you  will,”  he 
added  to  himself,  before  he  rang  his  little  bell  again, 
and  summoned  his  valet  to  his  own  bedroom. 

The  valet  come  and  gone,  Monsieur  the  Marquis 
walked  to  and  fro  in  his  loose  chamber-robe,  to  prepare 
himself  gently  for  sleep,  that  hot  still  night.  Rustling 
about  the  room,  his  softly-slippered  feet  making  no  noise 
on  the  floor,  he  moved  like  a refined  tiger  : — looked  like 
some  enchanted  marquis  of  the  impenitently  wicked 
sort,  in  story,  whose  periodical  change  into  tiger  form 
was  either  just  going  off,  or  just  coming  on. 

He  moved  from  end  to  end  of  his  voluptuous  bedroom, 
looking  again  at  the  scraps  of  the  day's  journey  that 
came  unbidden  into  his  mind  ; the  slow  toil  up  the  hill 
at  sunset,  the  setting  sun,  the  descent,  the  mill,  the 
prison  on  the  crag,  the  little  village  in  the  hollow,  the 
peasants  at  the  fountain,  and  the  mender  of  roads  witk 
his  blue  cap  pointing  out  the  chain  under  the  carriage. 
That  fountain  suggested  the  Paris  fountain,  the  little 
bundle  lying  on  the  step,  the  women  bending  over  it 
and  the  tall  man  with  his  arms  up,  crying,  “Dead  ! ” 

“I  am  cool  now,”  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  “anc 
may  go  to  bed.” 

So,  leaving  only  one  light  burning  on  the  large  hearth, 
he  let  his  thin  gauze  curtains  fall  around  him,  and  heard 
the  Taight  break  its  silence  with  a long  sigh  as  he  corm 
posed  himself  to  sleep. 

The  stone  faces  on  the  outer  walls  stared  blindly  at 
the  black  night  for  three  heavy  hours ; for  three  heavy 


112  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

hours,  the  horses  in  the  stables  rattled  at  their  racks, 
the  dogs  barked,  and  the  owl  made  a noise  with  very 
little  resemblance  in  it  to  the  noise  conventionally  as- 
signed to  the  owl  by  men-poets.  But,  it  is  the  obstinate 
custom  of  such  creatures  hardly  ever  to  say  what  is  set 
down  for  them. 

For  three  heavy  hours,  the  stone  faces  of  the  chateau, 
}ion  and  human,  stared  blindly  at  the  night.  Dead 
darkness  lay  on  all  the  landscape,  dead  darkness  added 
its  own  hush  to  the  hushing  dust  on  all  the  roads.  The 
burial-place  has  got  to  the  pass  that  its  little  heaps  of 
poor  grass  were  un distinguishable  from  one  another  ; 
the  figure  on  the  Cross  might  have  come  down,  for  any- 
thing that  could  be  seen  of  it.  In  the  village,  taxers 
and  taxed  were  fast  asleep.  Dreaming,  perhaps,  of 
banquets,  as  the  starved  usually  do,  and  of  ease  and 
rest,  as  the  driven  slave  and  the  yoked  ox  may,  its  lean 
inhabitants  slept  soundly,  and  were  fed  and  freed. 

The  fountain  in  the  village  flowed  unseen  and  un- 
heard, and  the  fountain  at  the  chateau  dropped  unseen 
and  unheard — both  melting  away,  like  the  minutes  that 
were  falling  from  the  spring  of  Time — through  three 
dark  hours.  Then,  the  grey  water  of  both  began  to  be 
ghostly  hi  the  light,  and  the  eyes  of  the  stone  faces  of 
the  chateau  were  opened. 

Lighter  and  lighter,  until  at  last  the  sun  touched  the 
tops  of  the  still  trees,  and  poured  its  radiance  over  the 
hill.  In  the  glow,  the  water  of  the  chateau  fountain 
seemed  to  turn  to  blood,  and  the  stone  faees  crimsoned. 
The  carol  of  the  birds  was  loud  and  high,  and,  on  the 
weather-beaten  sill  of  the  great  window  of  the  bed- 
chamber of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  one  little  bird  sang 
its  sweetest  song  with  all  its  might.  At  this,  the  near- 
est stone  face  seemed  to  stare  amazed,  and,  with  open 
mouth  and  dropped  under- jaw,  looked  awe-stricken. 

Now,  the  sun  was  full  up,  and  movement  began  in  the 
village.  Casement  windows  opened,  crazy  doors  were 
unbarred,  and  people  came  forth  shivering — chilled,  as 
yet,  by  the  new  sweet  air.  Then  began  the  rarely  light- 
ened toil  of  the  day  among  the  village  population. 
Borne,  to  the  fountain  ; some,  to  the  fields  ; men  and 
women  here,  to  dig  and  delve  ; men  and  women  there, 
to  see  to  the  poor  live  stock,  and  lead  the  bony  cows  out, 
to  such  pasture  as  could  be  found  by  the  roadside.  In 
the  church  and  at  the  Cross,  a kneeling  figure  or  two 
attendant  on  the  latter  prayers,  the  led  cow,  trying  for  a 
breakfast  among  the  weeds  at  its  foot. 

The  chateau  awoke  later,  as  became  its  quality,  but 
awoke  gradually  and  surely.  First,  the  lonely  hoar 
spears  and  knives  of  the  chase  had  been  reddened  as  of 
old  ; then,  had  gleamed  trenchant  in  the  morning  sun 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


113 


shine  ; now,  doors  and  windows  were  thrown  open, 
horses  in  their  stables  looked  round  over,  their  shoulders 
at  the  light  and  freshness  pouring  in  at  doorways,  leaves 
sparkled  and  rustled  at  iron-grated  windows,  dogs  pulled 
hard  at  their  chains,  and  reared  impatient  to  be  loosed. 

All  these  trivial  incidents  belonged  to  the  routine  of 
life,  and  the  return  of  morning.  Surely,  not  so  the  ring- 
ing of  the  great  bell  of  the  chateau,  nor  the  running  up 
and  down  the  stairs,  nor  the  hurried  figures  on  the  ter- 
race, nor  the  booting  and  tramping  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  nor  the  quick  saddling  of  horses  and  riding 
away  ? 

What  winds  conveyed  this  hurry  to  the  grizzled  mender 
of  roads,  already  at  work  on  the  hill-top  beyond  the  vil- 
lage, with  his  day's  dinner  (not  much  to  carry)  lying  in 
a bundle  that  it  was  worth  no  crow's  while  to  peck  at, 
on  a heap  of  stones  ? Had  the  birds,  carrying  some  grains 
of  it  to  a distance,  dropped  one  over  him  as  they  sow 
chance  seeds?  Whether  or  no,  the  mender  of  roads  ran, 
on  the  sultry  morning,  as  if  for  his  life,  down  the  hill, 
knee-high  in  dust,  and  never  stopped  till  he  got  to  the 
fountain. 

All  the  people  of  the  village  were  at  the  fountain, 
standing  about  in  their  depressed  manner,  and  whisper- 
ing low,  but  showing  no  other  emotions  than  grim  curi- 
osity and  surprise.  The  led  cows,  hastily  brought  in 
and  tethered  to  anything  that  would  hold  them,  were 
looking  stupidly  on,  or  lying  down  chewing  the  cud 
of  nothing  particularly  repaying  their  trouble,  which 
the}jr  had  picked  up  in  their  interrupted  saunter.  Some 
of  the  people  of  the  chateau,  and  some  of  those  of  the 
posting-house,  arud  all  the  taxing  authorities,  were  armed 
more  or  less,  and  were  crowded  on  the  other  side  of  the 
little  street  in  a purposeless  way,  that  was  highly  fraught 
with  nothing.  Already,  the  mender  of  roads  had  pene- 
trated into  the  midst  of  a group  of  fifty  particular  friends, 
and  was  smiting  himself  in  the  breast  with  his  blue  cap. 
What  did  all  this  portend,  and  what  portended  the  swift 
hoisting  up  of  Monsieur  Gabelle  behind  a servant  on 
horseback,  and  the  conveying  away  of  the  said  Gabelle 
(double-laden  though  the  horse  was),  at  a gallop,  like  a 
new  version  of  the  German  ballad  of  Leonora? 

It  portended  that  there  was  one  stone  face  too  many, 
up  at  the  chateau. 

The  Gorgon  had  surveyed  the  building  again  in  the 
night,  and  had  added  the  one  stone  face  wanting ; the 
stone  face  for  which  it  had  waited  through  about  two 
hundred  years. 

It  lay  back  on  the  pillow  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis. 
It  was  like  a fine  mask,  suddenly  startled,  made  angry, 
and  petrified.  Driven  home  into  the  heart  of  the  ston$ 


114 


V?ORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Hgiire  attached  to  it,  was  a knife.  Round  its  liilt  was  a 
frill  of  paper,  on  which  was  scrawled  : 

‘ ‘ Br&e  him  fast  to  his  tomb.  This , from  0 aqxjes.  99 


CHAPTER  X. 

Two  Promises. 

More  months  to  the  number  of  twelve,  had  come  and 
gone,  and  Mr.  ( haries  Darnay  was  established  in  Eng- 
land as  a higher  teacher  of  the  French  language  who 
was  conversant  with  French  literature.  In  this  age,  he 
would  have  been  a Professor  ; in  that  age,  he  was  a 
Tutor.  He  read  with  young  men  who  could  find  any 
leisure  and  interest  for  the  study  of  a living  tongue 
spoken  all  over  the  world,  and  he  cultivated  a taste  for  its 
stores  of  knowledge  and  fancy.  He  could  write  of  them, 
besides,  in  sound  English,  and  render  them  into  sound 
English.  Such  masters  were  not  at  that  time  easily 
found  ; Princes  that  had  been,  and  Kings  that  were  to 
be,  were  not  yet  of  the  Teacher  class,  and  no  ruined 
nobility  had  dropped  out  of  Tellson’s  ledgers,  to  turn 
cooks  and  carpenters.  As  a tutor,  whose  attainments 
made  the  student’s  way  unusually  pleasant  and  profita- 
ble, and  as  an  elegant  translator  who  brought  something 
to  his  work  besides  mere  dictionary  knowledge,  young 
Mr.  Darnay  soon  became  known  and  encouraged.  He 
was  well  acquainted,  moreover,  with  the  circumstances  oi  , 
his  country ,.  and.  those  were  of  ever-growing  interest. 
Bo,  with  great  perseverance  and  untiring  industry,  he 
prospered. 

In  London,  he  had  expected  neither  to  walk  on  pave- 
ments of  gold,  nor  to  lie  on  beds  of  roses  ; if  he  had  had 
any  such  exalted  expectation,  he  would  not  have  pros- 
pered. He  had  expected  labour,  and  he  found  it,  and 
did  it,  and  made  the  best  of  it.  In  this,  his  prosperity 
consisted. 

A certain  portion  of  his  time  was  passed  at  Cambridge, 
where  he  read  with  undergraduates  as  a sort  of  tolerated 
smuggler  who  drove  a contraband  trade  in  European 
languages,  instead  of  conveying  Greek  and  Latin  through 
the  Custom-house.  The  rest  of  his  time  he  passed  in 
London. 

Now,  from  tlie  days  when  it  was  always  summer  i^ 
Eden,  to  these  days  when  it  is  mostly  winter  in  fallen 
latitudes,  the  world  of  a man  has  invariably  gone  one 
way — Charles  Darnay’s  way — the  way  of  the  love  of  a 
woman. 

He  had  loved  Lucie  Manette  from  the  hour  of  his 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


115 


danger.  He  liad  never  heard  a sound  so  sweet  and  dear 
as  the  sound  of  her  compassionate  voice  ; he  had  never 
seen  a face  so  tenderly  beautiful,  as  hers  when  it  was 
confronted  with  his  own  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  that 
had  been  dug  for  him.  But,  he  had  not  yet  spoken  to 
her  on  the  subject ; the  assassination  tat  the  deserted 
chateau  far  away  beyond  the  heaving  water  and  the 
long,  long,  dusty  roads — the  solid  sto-^e  chateau  which 
had  itself  become  the  mere  mist  of  a dream — had  been 
done  a year,  and  he  had  never  yetv  by  so  much  as  a 
single  spoken  word,  disclosed  to  her  the  state  of  his 
heart. 

That  he  had  his  reasons  for  this,  he  knew  full  well. 
It  was  again  a summer  day  when,  lately  arrived  in  Lon- 
don  from  his  college  occupation,  he  turned  into  the  quiet 
corner  in  Soho,  bent  on  seeking  an  opportunity  of  open- 
ing his  mind  to  Doctor  Manette.  It  was  the  close  of  the 
summer  day,  and  he  knew  Ltucie  to  be  out  witb  Miss 
Press. 

He  found"  the  Dootor  reading  in  his  arm-chair  at  a 
window.  The  energy  which  had  at  once  supported  him 
under  his  old  sufferings  and  aggravated  their  sharpness, 
had  been  gradually  restored  to  him.  He  was  now  a very 
energetic  man  indeed,  with  great  firmness  of  purpose, 
strength  of  resolution,  and  vigour  of  action.  In  his  re- 
covered energy  he  was  sometimes  a little  fitful  and  sud- 
den, as  he  had  at  first  been  in  the  exercise  of  his  other 
recovered  faculties  ; but,  this  had  never  been  frequently 
observable,  and  had  grown  more  and  more  rare. 

He  studied  much,  slept  little,  sustained  a great  deal 
of  fatigue  with  ease,  and  was  equably  cheerful.  To 
him,  now  entered  Charles  Darnay,  at  sight  of  whom  he 
laid  aside  his  book  and  held  out  his  hand. 

‘ Charles  Darnay!  I rejoice  to  see  you.  We  have 
been  counting  on  your  return  these  three  or  four  days 
past.  Mr.  Stryver  and  Sydney  Carton  were  both  here 
yesterday,  and  both  made  you  out  to  be  more  than  due.” 

“I  am  obliged  to  them  for  their  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter/’ he  answered,  a little  coldly  as  to  them,  though  very 
warmly  as  to  the  Doctor.  “ Miss  Manette — ” 

“ Is  well,”  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  stopped  short,  “ and 
your  return  will  delight  us  all.  She  has  gone  out  on 
some  household  matters,  but;  will  soon  be  home.” 

“ Doctor  Manette,  I knew  she  was  from  home.  I took 
the  opportunity  of  her  being  from  home,  to  beg  to  speak 
to  you.” 

There  was  a blank  silence. 

“ Yes  ! ” said  the  Doctor,  with  evident  constraint:- 
“Bring  your  chair  here,  and  speak  on.” 

He  complied  as  to  the  chair,  but  appeared  to  find  tho 
speaking  on  less  easy. 


116 


W ORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


<f  I Lave  liad  the  happiness,  Doctor  Manette,  of  being 
so  intimate  here/’  so  lie  at  length  began,  “ for  some  year 
and  a half,  that  I hope  the  topic  on  which  1 am  about  to 
touch  may  not — ” 

He  was  stayed  by  the  Doctor’s  putting  out  his  hand  to 
stop  him.  When  he  had  kept  it  so  a little  while,  he 
said,  drawing  it  back  : 

“ Is  Lucie  the  topic  ? ” 

“ She  is.” 

‘ 4 It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak  of  her,  at  any  time.  It  is 
very  hard  for  me  to  hear  her  spoken  of  in  that  tone  of 
yours,  Charles  Darnay.” 

“ It  is  a tone  of  fervent  admiration,  true  homage  and 
deep  love,  Doctor  Manette  ! ” he  said,  deferentially. 

There  was  another  blank  silence  before  her  father  re- 
joined : 

“ I believe  it.  I do  you  justice.  I believe  it.” 

His  constraint  v/as  so  manifest,  and  it  was  so  manifest, 
too,  that  it  originated  in  an  unwiJlingness  to  approach 
the  subject,  that  Charles  Darnay  hesitated. 

“ Shall  I go  on,  sir  ? ” 

Another  blank. 

“ Yes,  go  on.” 

You  anticipate  what  I would  say5  though  you  cannot 
know  how  earnestly  I say  it,  how  earnestly  I feel  it, 
without  knowing  my  secret  heart,  and  the  hopes  and 
fears  and  anxieties  with  which  it  has  long  been  laden. 
Dear  Doctor  Manette,  I love  your  daughter  fondly,  dear- 
fly,  disinterestedly,  devotedly.  If  ever  there  were  love 
in  the  world,  I love  her.  You  have  loved  yourself  ; let 
your  old  love  speak  for  me  l ” 

The  Doctor  sat  with  his  face  turned  away,  and  his  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground.  At  the  last  words,  he  stretched 
out  his  hand  again,  hurriedly,  and  cried  *. 

“Not  that,  sir  ! Let  that  be  ! I adjure  you,  do  not 
retail  that  ! ” 

His  cry  was  so  like  a cry  of  actual  pain,  that  it  rang 
m Charles  Darnay’s  ears  long  after  he  had  ceased.  He 
motioned  with  the  hand  he  had  extended,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  an  appeal  to  Darnay  to  pause.  The  latter  so  re- 
ceived it,  and  remained  silent. 

“I  ask  your  pardon,”  said  the  Doctor,  in  a subdued 
tone,  after  some  moments.  I do  not  doubt  your  loving 
Lucie  : you  may  be  satisfied  of  it.” 

He  turned  towards  him  in  his  chair,  but  did  not  look 
at  him,  or  raise  his  eyes.  His  chin  dropped  upon  his 
hand,  and  his  white  hair  overshadowed  his  face  : 

1 Have  you  spoken  to  Lucie  ?” 
u No.” 

" Nor  written  ? ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


117 


Never,” 

“ It  would  be  ungenerous  to  affect  not  to  know  that 
your  self-denial  is  to  be  referred  to  your  consideration 
for  her  father.  Her  father  thanks  you.  ” 

He  offered  his  hand ; but,  his  eyes  did  not  go  with 
it, 

“ I know,”  said  Darnay,  respectfully,  “ how  can  I fail 
to  know.  Doctor  Manette,  I who  have  seen  you  together 
from  day  to  day,  that  between  you  and  Miss  Manette 
there  is  an  affection  so  unusual,  so  touching,  so  belong 
ing  to  the  circumstances  in  which  it  has  been  nurtured, 
that  it  can  have  few  parallels,  even  in  the  tenderness 
between  a father  and  child.  I know,  Doctor  Manette— 
how  can  I fail  to  know — that,  mingled  with  the  affection 
and  duty  of  a daughter  who  has  become  a woman,  there 
is,  in  her  heart  towards  you,  all  the  love  and  reliance  of 
infancy  itself,  1 know  that,  as  in  her  childhood  she  had 
no  parent,  so  she  is  now  devoted  to  you  with  all  the  con 
stancy  and  fervour  of  her  present  years  and  character, 
united  to  the  trustfulness  and  attachment  of  the  early 
days  in  which  you  were  lost  to  her.  I know  perfectly 
well  that  if  you  had  been  restored  to  her  from  the  world 
beyond  this  life,  you  could  hardly  be  invested,  in  her 
sight,  with  a more  sacred  character  than  that  in  which 
you  are  always  with  her,  I know  that  when  she  is 
clinging  to  you,  the  hands  of  baby,  girl,  and  woman,  all 
in  one,  are  round  your  neck.  I know  that  in  loving  you 
she  sees  and  loves  her  mother  at  her  own  age,  sees  and 
loves  you  at  my  age,  loves  her  mother  broken-hearted, 
loves  you  through  your  dreadful  trial  and  in  your  blessed 
restoration.  I have  known  this,  night  and  day,  since  1 
have  known  you  in  your  home.” 

Her  father  sat  silent,  with  his  face  bent  down.  His 
breathing  was  a little  quickened  ; but  he  repressed  all 
other  signs  of  agitation. 

“ Dear  Doctor  Manette,  always  knowing  this,  always 
seeing  her  and  you  w?ith  this  hallowed  light  about  you, 

■ have  forborne,  and  forborne,  as  long, as  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  man  to  do  it,  I have  felt,  and  do  even  now 
feel,  that  to  bring  my  love — even  mine — between  you, 
is  to  touch  your  history  with  something  not  quite  so 
good  as  itself.  But  I love  her.  Heaven  is  my  witness 
that  I love  her  ! ” 

“I  believe  it,”  answered  her  father,  mournfully.  “ I 
thought  so,  before  now.  I believe  it.” 

“ But,  do  not  believe,”  said  Darney,  upon  whose  ear 
the  mournful  voice  struck  with  a reproachful  sound, 
“ that  if  my  fortune  was  so  cast  as  that,  being  one  day 
so  happy  as  to  make  her  my  wife,  I must  at  any  time  put 
any  separation  between  her  and  you,  I could  or  would 
breathe  a word  of  what  I now  say.  Besides  that  I should 


118 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


know  it  to  be  hopeless,  I should  know  it  to  be  a baseness. 
If  I had  any  such  possibility,  even  at  a remote  distance 
of  years,  harboured  in  my  thoughts  and  hidden  in  my 
heart — if  it  ever  had  been  there — if  it  ever  could  be 
there— -I  could  not  now  touch  this  honoured  hand.” 

He  laid  his  own  upon  it  as  he  spoke. 

“ No,  dear  Doctor  Manette.  Like  you,  a voluntary 
exile  from  France  ; like  you,  driven  from  it  by  its  dis- 
tractions, oppressions,  and  miseries  ; like  you,  striving  to 
live  away  from  it  by  my  own  exertions,  and  trusting  in 
a happier  future  ; I look  only  to  sharing  youi  fortunes, 
sharing  your  life  and  home,  and  being  faithful  to  you  to 
the  death.  Not  to  divide  with  Lucie  her  privilege  as 
your  child,  companion,  and  friend  ; but  to  come  in  aid 
of  it,  and  bind  her  closer  to  you,  if  such  a thing  can 
be.” 

His  touch  still  lingered  on  her  father’s  hand.  An- 
swering the  touch  for  a moment,  but  not  coldly,  her 
father  rested  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and 
looked  up  for  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the 
conference.  A struggle  was  evidently  in  his  face  : a 
struggle  with  that  occasional  look  which  had  a tendency 
in  it  to  dark  doubt  and  dread. 

“You  speak  so  feelingly  and  so  manfully,  Charles 
Darnay,that  I thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  will  open 
all  my  heart — or  nearly  so.  Have  you  any  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  Lucie  loves  you  ? ” 

“ None.  As  yet,  none.” 

“Is  it  the  immediate  object  of  this  confidence,  that 
you  may  at  once  ascertain  that,  with  my  knowledge  ? ” 

“ Not  even  so.  I might  not  have  the  hopefulness  to 
do  it  for  weeks  ; I might  (mistaken  or  not  mistaken)  have 
that  hopefulness  to-morrow.” 

‘ ‘ Do  you  seek  any  guidance  from  me  ? ” 

“ I ask  none,  sir.  But  I have  thought  it  possible  that 
you  might  have  it  in  your  power,  if  you  should  deem  it 
right,  to  give  me  some.” 

“ Do  you  seek  any  promise  from  me  ? ” 

" I do  seek  that?.” 

' * What  is  it  ? ” 

“ I well  understand  that,  without  you,  I could  have  no 
hope.  I well  understand  that,  even  if  Miss  Manette 
held  me  at  this  moment  in  her  innocent  heart — do  not 
think  I have  the  presumption  to  assume  so  much — I 
could  retain  no  place  in  it  against  her  love  for  her 
father.” 

“ If  that  be  so,  do  you  see  what,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  involved  in  it?” 

“I  understand  equally  well,  that  a word  from  her 
father  in  any  suitor’s  favour,  would  outweigh  herself 
^Ad  Lill  the  world.  For  which  reason.  Doctor  Manette,” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


119 


said  Barney,  modestly  but  firmly,  “ T would  not  ask  that 
word,  to  save  my  life.” 

“ I am  sure  of  it.  Charley  Barney,  mysteries  arise 
out  of  close  love,  as  well  as  out  of  wide  division  ; in  the 
former  case,  they  are  subtle  and  delicate,  and  difficult  to 
penetrate.  My  daughter  Lucie  is,  in  this  one  respect, 
such  a mystery  to  me  ; I can  make  no  guess  at  the  state 
of  her  heart.” 

“ May  I ask,  sir,  if  you  think  she  is—”  As  he  hesi- 
tated, her  father  supplied  the  rest. 

“ Is  sought  by  any  other  suitor  ? ” 

€t  It  is  what  I meant  to  say.” 

Her  father  considered  a little  before  he  answered  : 

“ You  have  seen  Mr.  Carton  here,  yourself.  Mr.  Stry- 
ver  is  here  too,  occasionally.  If  it  be  at  all,  it  can  only 
be  by  one  of  these.” 

“ Or  both,”  said  Barney. 

“ I had  not  thought  of  both  ; I should  not  think 
either,  likely.  You  want  a promise  from  me.  Tell  me 
what  it  is.” 

“ It  is,  that  if  Miss  Manette  should  bring  to  you  at 
any  time,  on  her  own  part,  such  a confidence  as  I have 
ventured  to  lay  before  you,  you  will  bear  testimony  to 
what  I have  said,  and  to  your  belief  in  it.  I hope  you 
may  be  able  to  think  so  well  of  me,  as  to  urge  no  influ- 
ence against  me.  I say  nothing  more  of  my  stake  in 
this  ; this  is  what  I ask.  The  condition  on  which  I ask 
it,  and  which  you  have  an  undoubted  right  to  require, 
I will  observe  immediately.” 

“ I give  the  promise,”  said  the  Boctor,  “ without  any 
condition.  I believe  your  object  to  be,  purely  and  truth- 
fully, as  you  have  stated  it.  I believe  your  intention  is 
to  perpetuate,  and  not  to  weaken,  the  ties  between  me 
and  my  other  and  far  dearer  self.  If  she  should  ever 
tell  me  that  you  are  essential  to  her  perfect  happiness,  I 
will  give  her  to  you.  If  there  were — Charles  Barnay,  if 
there  were—” 

The  young  man  had  taken  his  hand  gratefully  ; their 
hands  were  joined  as  the  Boctor  spoke  : 

“ — any  fancies,  any  reasons,  any  apprehensions,  any- 
thing whatsoever,  new  or  old,  against  the  man  she  really 
loved — the  direct  responsibility  thereof  not  lying  on  his 
head — they  should  all  be  obliterated  for  her  sake.  She 
is  everything  to  me  ; more  to  me  than  suffering,  more  to 
me  than  wrong,  more  to  me — Weil  ! This  is  idle  talk.” 

So  strange  was  the  way  in  which  he  faded  info  silence, 
and  so  strange  his  fixed  look  when  he  had  ceased  to 
speak,  that  Barnay  felt  his  own  hand  turn  cold  in  the 
hand  that  slowly  released  and  dropped  it. 

“ You  said  something  tome,”  said  Boctor  Manette, 
breaking  into  a smile.  “ What  was  it  you  said  to  me?'5 


120 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  was  at  a loss  how  to  answer,  until  he  remembered 
having  spoken  of  a condition.  Relieved  as  his  mind  re- 
verted to  that,  he  answered  : 

“Your  confidence  in  me  ought  to  be  returned  with 
full  confidence  on  my  part.  My  present  name,  though 
but  slightly  changed  from  my  mother’s,  is  n<)t,  as  you 
will  remember,  my  own.  I wish  to  tell  you  what  that 
is,  and  why  I am  in  England.” 

“ Stop  ! ” said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais. 

“ I wish  it,  that  I may  the  better  deserve  your  confU 
dence,  and  have  no  secret  from  you.’’ 

“ Stop  ! ” 

For  an  instant,  the  Doctor  even  had  his  twc  hands  at 
his  ears  ; for  another  instant,  even  had  his  two  hands 
laid  on  Darn  ay’s  lips. 

“ Tell  me  when  I ask  you,  not  now.  If  your  suit 
should  prosper,  if  Lucie  should  love  you,  you  shall  tell 
me  on  your  marriage  morning.  Do  you  promise 

“ Willingly.” 

“ Give  me  your  hand.  She  will  be  home  directly,  and 
it  is  better  she  should  not  see  us  together  to-night. 
Go  ! God  bless  you  ! ” 

It  was  dark  when  Charles  Darnay  left  him,  and  it  was 
an  hour  later  and  darker  when  Lucie  came  home  ; she 
hurried  into  the  room  alone— for  Miss  Pross  had  gone 
straight  up-stairs — and  was  surprised  to  find  his  reading- 
chair  empty. 

“ My  father  ! ” she  called  to  him.  “ Father  dear  ! ” 

Nothing  was  said  in  answer,  but  she  heard  a low  ham 
inering  sound  in  his  bedroom.  Passing  lightly  across  the 
intermediate  room,  she  looked  in  at  his  door  and  came 
running  back  frightened,  crying  to  herself,  with  lie? 
blood  all  chilled,  “What  shall  I do  ! What  shall  I do  ! ” 

Her  uncertainty  lasted  hut  a moment  ; she  hurried 
back  and  tapped  at  his  door,  and  softly  called  to  him. 
The  noise  ceased  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  he  pres- 
ently came  out  to  her,  and  they  walked  up  and  down  to- 
gether for  a long  time. 

She  came  down  from  her  bed,  to  look  at  him  in  his 
sleep  that  night.  He  slept  heavily,  and  his  tray  of  shoe- 
making tools  and  his  old  unfinished  work,  were  all  as 
usual, " 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


121 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A Companion  Picture. 

“ Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  on  that  self-same  night, 
or  morning,  to  his  jackal  ; “ mix  another  bowl  of  punch  ; 
I have  something  to  say  to  you.” 

Sydney  had  been  working  double  tides  that  night,  and 
the  night  before,  and  the  night  before  that,  and  a good 
many  nights  in  succession,  making  a grand  clearance 
among  Mr.  Stryver’s  papers  before  the  setting  in  of  the 
long  vacation.  The  clearance  was  effected  at  last  ; the 
Stryver  arrears  were  handsomely  fetched  up  ; every- 
thing was  got  rid  of  until  November  should  come  with 
its  fogs  atmospheric  and  fogs  legal,  and  bring  grist  to 
the  mill  again. 

Sydney  was  none  the  livelier  and  none  the  soberer  foi 
so  much  application.  It  had  taken  a deal  of  extra  wet- 
towelling to  pull  him  through  the  night  ; a correspond- 
ingly extra  quantity  of  wine  had  preceded  the  towel- 
ling ; and  he  was  in  a very  damaged  condition,  as  he 
now  pulled  his  turban  off  and  threw  it  into  the  basin  in 
which  he  had  steeped  it  at  intervals  for  the  last  sis 
hours. 

“Are  you  mixing  that  other  bowl  of  punch?”  said 
Stryver  the  portly,  with  his  hands  in  his  waistband, 
glancing  round  from  the  sofa  where  he  lay  on  his  back. 

“ I am.” 

“ Now  look  here  ! I am  going  to  tell  you  something 
that  will  rather  surprise  you,  and  that  perhaps  will  make 
you  think  me  not  quite  as  shrewd  as  you  usually  do 
think  me.  I intend  to  marry  ! ” 

“ Do  you  ! ” 

“Yes.  And  not  for  money.  What  do  you  say  now  ? ” 

“ I don’t  feel  disposed  to  say  much.  Who  is  she?” 

“ Guess.” 

“ Do  I know  her  ? ” 

“ Guess.  ” 

“ I am  not  going  to  guess,  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  my  brains  frying  and  sputtering  in  my  head. 
If  you  want  me  to  guess,  you  must  ask  me  to  dinner.  ” 

“Well  then,  I’ll  tell  you,”  said  Stryver,  coming  slowly 
into  a sitting  posture.  “ Sydney,  I rather  despair  of 
making  myself  intelligible  to  you,  because  you  are  such 
an  insensible  dog.  ” 

“And  you,”  returned  Sydney,  busy  concocting  the 
punch,  “ are  such  a sensitive  and  poetical  spirit.” 

“Come!”  rejoined  Stryver,  laughing  boastfully, 
-F  VOL.  11 


122 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


l€  though  I don’t  prefer  any  claim  to  being  the  soul  of 
Romance  (for  I hope  I know  better),  still,  I am  a tenderer 
sort  of  fellow  than  you  .” 

“ You  are  a luckier,  if  you  mean  that.” 

“ I don’t  mean  that.  I mean,  I am  a man  of  more- 
more—” 

“ Say  gallantry,  while  you  are  about  it,”  suggested 
Carton. 

Well  ! I’ll  say  gallantry.  My  meaning  is  that,  lam 
a man,”  said  Stryver,  inflating  himself  at  his  friend 
as  he  made  the  punch,  “ who  cares  more  to  be  agreeable, 
who  takes  more  pains  to  be  agreeable,  who  knows  better 
how  to  be  agreeable,  in  a woman’s  society,  than  you  do.” 

“ Go  on,”  said  Sydney  Carton. 

“ No  ; but  before  I go  on,”  said  Stryver,  shaking  his 
head  in  his  bullying  way,  “ I’ll  have  this  out  with  you. 
You  have  been  at  Doctor  Manette’s  house  as  much  as  I 
have,  or  more  than  I have.  Why,  I have  been  ashamed 
of  your  moroseness  there  ! Your  manners  have  been  of 
that  silent  and  sullen  and  hang- dog  kind,  that,  upon  my 
life  and  soul,  I have  been  ashamed  of  you,  Sydney  ! ” 

“ It  should  be  very  beneficial  to  a man  in  your  practice 
at  the  bar,  to  be  ashamed  of  anything,”  returned  Syd- 
ney ; “ you  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  me.” 

“ You  shall  not  get  off  in  that  way,”  rejoined  Stryver, 
shouldering  the  rejoinder  at  him  ; “ no,  Sydney,  it’s  my 
duty  to  tell  you— and  I tell  you  to  your  face  to  do  you  good 
— that  you  are  a de-vilish  ill-conditioned  fellow  in  that 
sort  of  society.  You  are  a disagreeable  fellow.” 

Sydney  drank  a bumper  of  the  punch  he  had  made, 
and  laughed. 

“Look  at  me  !”  said  Stryver,  squaring  himself  ; “ I 
have  less  need  to  make  myself  agreeable  than  you  have, 
being  more  independent  in  circumstances.  Whv  do  I do 
it?” 

“ I never  saw  you  do  it  yet,”  muttered  Carton. 

“ I do  it  because  it’s  politic  ; I do  it  on  principle.  And 
look  at  me  ! I get  on.” 

“ You  don’t  get  on  with  your  account  of  your  matrimo- 
nial intentions,”  answered  Carton,  with  a careless  air  : 
“I  wish  you  would  keep  to  that.  As  to  me — will 
you  never  understand  that  I am  incorrigible?  ” 

He  asked  the  question  with  some  appearance  of  scorn, 

“ You  have  no  business  to  be  incorrigible,”  was  his 
friend’s  answer,  delivered  in  no  very  soothing  tone. 

“ I have  no  business  to  be,  at  all,  that  I know  of,” 
said  Sydney  Carton.  “ Who  is  the  lady?  ” 

“ Now,  don’t  let  my  announcement  of  the  name  make 
you  uncomfortable,  Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  p^par- 
mg  him  with  ostentatious  friendliness  for  the  disclosure 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


123 


lie  was  about  to  make,  “ because  I know  you  don’t 
mean  half  you  say  ; and  if  you  meant  it  all,  it  would  be 
of  no  importance.  I make  this  little  preface,  because 
you  once  mentioned  the  young  lady  to  me  in  slighting 
terms.  ” 

“I  did?” 

“ Certainly;  and  in  these  chambers.” 

Sydney  Carton  looked  at  his  punch  and  looked  at  his 
complacent  friend  ; drank  his  punch  and  looked  at  his 
complacent  friend. 

“ You  made  mention  of  the  young  lady  as  a golden- 
haired doll.  The  young  lady  is  Miss  Manette.  If  you 
had  been  a fellow  of  any  sensitiveness  or  delicacy  of 
feeling  in  that  kind  of  way,  Sydney,  I might  have  been 
a little  resentful  of  your  employing  such  a designation  ; 
but  you  are  not.  You  want  that  sense  altogether ; 
therefore,  I am  no  more  annoyed  when  I think  of  the 
expression,  than  I should  be  annoyed  by  a man's  opinion 
of  a picture  of  mine,  who  had  no  eye  for  pictures  ; or  of 
a piece  of  music  of  mine,  who  had  no  ear  for  music.” 

Sydney  Carton  drank  the  punch  at  a great  rate ; 
drank  it  by  bumpers,  looking  at  his  friend. 

“Now  you  know  all  about  it,  Syd,”  said  Mr.  Stryver. 
“ I don’t  care  about  fortune  : she  is  a charming  creature, 
and  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  please  myself  : on  the 
whole,  I think  I can  afford  to  please  myself.  She  will 
have  in  me  a man  already  pretty  well  off,  and  a rapidly 
rising  man,  and  a man  of  some  distinction  : its  a piece  of 
good  fortune  for  her,  but  she  is  worthy  of  good  fortune. 

Are  you  astonished  ? ” 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  “ Why  should 
I be  astonished  ? ” 

“You  approve ?” 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  “ Why 
should  I not  approve  ? ” 

“Well  ! ” said  his  friend  Stryver,  “ you  take  it  more 
easily  than  I fancied  you  would,  and  are  less  mercenary 
on  my  behalf  than  I thought  you  would  be  ; though,  to 
be  sure,  you  know  well  enough  by  this  time  that  your 
ancient  chum  is  a man  of  a pretty  strong  will.  Yes,  Syd- 
ney, I have  had  enough  of  this  style  of  life,  with  no  other 
as  a change  from  it ; I feel  that  it  is  a pleasant  thing  for 
a man  to  have  a home  when  he  feels  inclined  to  go  to  it 
(wrhen  he  doesn’t,  he  can  stay  away),  and  I feel  that  Miss 
Manette  will  tell  wrell  in  any  station,  and  will  always  do 
me  credit.  So  I have  made  up  my  mind.  And  now, 
Sydney,  old  boy,  I want  to  say  a w'ord  to  you  about  your 
prospects.  You  are  in  a bad  way,  you  know' ; you  really 
are  in  a bad  way.  You  don’t  know  the  value  of  money, 
you  live  hard,  you’ll  knock  up  one  of  these  days,  and  be 
ill  and  poor  ; you  really  ought  to  think  about  a nurse,” 


124 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  prosperous  patronage  with  which  he  said  it,  mad© 
him  look  twice  as  big  as  he  was,  and  four  times  as  offen- 
sive. 

“ Now,  let  me  recommend  you,”  pursued  Stryver,  “ to 
look  it  in  the  face.  I have  looked  it  in  the  face,  in  my 
different  way  ; look  it  in  the  face,  you,  in  your  different 
way.  Marry.  Provide  somebody  to  take  care  of  you. 
Never  mind  your  having  no  enjoyment  of  women’s  soci- 
ety, nor  understanding  of  it,  nor  tact  for  it.  Find  out 
somebody.  Find  out  some  respectable  woman  with  a 
little  property — somebody  in  the  landlady  way,  or  lodg- 
ing-letting way — and  marry  her  against  a rainy  day. 
That’s  the  kind  of  thing  for  you . Now  think  of  it,  Syd- 
ney.” 

“ I’ll  think  of  it,”  said  Sydney. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Fellow  of  Delicacy. 

Mr.  Stryver  having  made  up  his  mind  to  that  mag 
nanimous  bestowal  of  good  fortune  on  the  Doctor’s  daugh- 
ter, resolved  to  make  her  happiness  known  to  her  before 
he  left  town  for  the  Long  Vacation.  After  some  mental 
debating  of  the  point,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
would  be  as  well  to  get  all  the  preliminaries  done  with, 
and  they  could  then  arrange  at  their  leisure  whether  he 
should  give  her  his  hand  a week  or  two  before  Michael- 
mas Term,  or  in  the  little  Christmas  vacation  between  it 
and  Hilary. 

As  to  the  strength  of  his  case,  he  had  not  a doubt 
about  it,  but  clearly  saw  his  way  to  the  verdict.  Argued 
with  the  jury  on  substantial  worldly  grounds— the  only 
grounds  ever  worth  taking  into  account — it  was  a plain 
case,  and  had  not  a weak  spot  in  it.  He  called  himself 
for  the  plaintiff,  there  was  no  getting  over  his  evidence, 
the  counsel  for  the  defendant  threw  up  his  brief,  and  the 
jury  did  not  even  turn  to  consider.  After  trying  it,  Stry- 
ver C.  J.  was  satisfied  that  no  plainer  case  could  be. 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Stryver  inaugurated  the  Long  Vaca- 
tion with  a formal  proposal  to  take  Miss  Manette  to  Vaux- 
hall  Gardens  ; that  failing,  to  Ranelagh  ; thapunacccunt- 
ably  failing  too,  it  behooved  him  to  present  himself  in 
Soho,  and  there  declare  his  noble  mind. 

Towards  Soho,  therefore,  Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his 
way  from  the  Temple,  while  the  bloom  of  the  Long  Va- 
cation’s infancy  was  still  upon  it.  Anybody  who  had 
seen  him  projecting  himself  into  Soho  while  he  was  yet 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


125 


on  Saint  Dunstan’s  side  of  Temple  Bar,  bursting  in  bis 
full-blown  way  along  the  pavement,  to  the  jostlement  of 
all  weaker  people,  might  have  seen  how  safe  and  strong 
he  was. 

His  way  taking  him  past  Tellson’s,  and  he  both  bank- 
ing at  Tellson’s  and  knowing  Mr.  Lorry  as  the  intimate 
friend  of  the  Manettes,  it  entered.  Mr.  Stryver’ s mind  to 
enter  the  bank,  and  reveal  to  Mr.  Lorry  the  brightness 
of  the  Soho  horizon.  So,  he  pushed  open  the  door  with 
the  weak  rattle  in  its  throat,  stumbled  down  the  two 
steps,  got  past  the  two  ancient  cashiers,  and  shouldered 
himself  into  the  musty  back  closet  where  Mr.  Lorry  sat 
at  great  books  ruled  for  figures,  with  perpendicular  iron 
bars  to  his  window  as  if  that  were  ruled  for  figures  too, 
and  everything  under  the  clouds  were  a sum. 

“ Halloa  I”  said  Mr.  Stryver.  “ How  do  you  do?  I 
hope  you  are  well  ! ” 

It  was  Stryver’s  grand  peculiarity  that  he  always 
seemed  too  big  for  any  place,  or  space.  He  was  so  much 
too  big  for  Tellson’s  that  old  clerks  in  distant  corners 
looked  up  with  looks  of  remonstrance,  as  though  he 
squeezed  them  against  the  wall.  The  House  itself, 
magnificently  reading  the  paper  quite  in  the  far-off  per- 
spective, lowered  displeased,  as  if  the  Stryver  head  had 
been  butted  into  its  responsible  waistcoat. 

The  discreet  Mr.  Lorry  said,  in  a sample  tone  of  the  voice 
he  would  recommend  under  the  circumstances,  “How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Stryver?  How  do  you  do,  sir?”  and 
shook  hands.  There  was  a peculiarity  in  his  manner  of 
shaking  hands,  always  to  be  seen  in  any  clerk  at  Tcll- 
son’s  who  shook  hands  with  a customer  when  the  House 
prevaded  the  air.  He  shook  in  a self-abnegating  way,  as 
one  who  shook  for  Teilson  and  Co. 

“ Can  I do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Stryver  ?”  asked  Mr. 
Lorry,  in  liis  business  character. 

“Why,  no  thank  you  ; this  is  a private  visit  to  your- 
self, Mr.  Lorry  : I have  come  for  a private  word.” 

“ Oh  indeed  ! ” said  Mr.  Lorry,  bending  down  his  ear. 
While  his  eye  strayed  to  the  House  afar  off. 

“I  am  going,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  leaning  his  arms 
confidentially  on  the  desk  : whereupon,  although  it  was 
a large  double  one,  there  appeared  to  be  not  half  desk 
enough  for  him  : “I  am  going  to  make  an  offer  of  my- 
self in  marriage  to  your  agreeable  little  friend  Miss  Ma~ 
nette,  Mr.  Lorry.” 

“ Oh  dear  me  ! ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rubbing  his  chin,  and 
looking  at  his  visitor  dubiously. 

“Oh  dear  me,  sir?”  repeated  Stryver,  drawing  back. 
“Oh  dear  you,  sir?  What  may  your  meaning  be,  Mr0 
Lorry  ? ” 

“My  meaning?”  answered  the  man  of  business,  “is, 


126 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


of  course,  friendly  and  appreciative,  and  tliat  it  does  you 
the  greatest  credit,  and — in  short,  my  meaning  is  every- 
thing you  could  desire.  But — really,  you  know,  Mr. 
Stryver — ” Mr.  Lorry  paused,  and  shook  his  head  at 
him  in  the  oddest  manner,  as  if  he  were  compelled 
against  his  will  to  add,  internally,  “you  know  there 
really  is  so  much  too  much  of  you  !” 

“Well!”  said  Stryver,  slapping  the  desk  with  his 
contentious  hand,  opening  his  eyes  voider,  and  taking 
along  breath,  “if  I understand  you,  Mr.  Lorry,  Fll  b$ 
hanged!” 

Mr.  Lorry  adjusted  his  little  wig  at  both  ears  as  a 
means  towards  "that  end,  and  bit  the  feather  of  a pen. 

“ D — n it  all,  sir  ! ” said  Stryver,  staring  at  him,  “ am 
I not  eligible?” 

“ Oh  dear  yes  ! Yes.  Oh  yes,  you’re  eligible  ! ” said 
Mr.  Lorry.  “ If  you  say  eligible,  you  are  eligible.” 

~ “ Am  I not  prosperous?”  asked  Stryver. 

“ Oh  ! if  you  come  to  prosperous,  you  are  prosperous,” 
said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ And  advancing  ? ” 

“ If  you  come  to  advancing,  you  know,”  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  delighted  to  be  able  to  make  another  admission, 
“ nobody  can  doubt  that.” 

“Then  what  on  earth  is  your  meaning,  Mr.  Lorry?” 
demanded  Stryver,  perceptibly  crestfallen. 

“Well  ! I — Were  you  going  there  now  ?”  asked  Mr. 
Lorry. 

“ Straight ! ” said  Stryver,  with  a plump  of  his  fist  on 
the  desk. 

“ Then  I think  I wouldn’t,  if  I was  you.” 

“ Why?  ” said  Stryver.  “ Now,  I’ll  put  you  in  a cor- 
ner,” forensically  shaking  a forefinger  at  him.  “You 
are  a man  of  business  and  bound  to  have  a reason. 
State  your  reason.  Why  wouldn’t  you  go  ?” 

“Because,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “I  wouldn’t  go  on  such 
an  object  without  having  some  cause  to  believe  that  I 
should  succeed.” 

“D — n me! ’’cried  Stryver,  “but  this  beats  every- 
thing.” 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and  glanced 
at  the  angry  Stryver. 

“ Here’s  a man  of  business — a man  of  years — a man  of 
experience — in  a Bank,”  said  Stryver  : ‘( and  having 
summed  up  three  leading  reasons  for  complete  success^ 
he  says  there’s  no  reason  at  all  ! Says  it  with  his  head 
on  ! ” Mr.  Stryver  remarked  upon  the  peculiarity  as  if 
it  would  have  been  infinitely  less  remarkable  if  lie  had 
said  it  with  his  head  off. 

“ When  I speak  of  success,  I speak  of  success  with  the 
young  lady  ; and  when  I speak  of  causes  and  reasons  to 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


127 


make  success  probable,  I speak  of  causes  and  reason* 
that  will  tell  as  such  with  the  young  lady.  The  young 
lady,  my  good  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  mildly  tapping  the 
Stryver  arm,  “the  young  lady.  The  young  lady  goes 
before  all.” 

“ Then  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Stryver, 
squaring  his  elbows,  “ that  it  is  your  deliberate  opinion 
that  the  young  lady  at  present  in  question  is  a mincing 
Fool  ? ” 

“ Not  exactly  so.  I mean  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Stryver,” 
said  Mr.  Lorry,  reddening,  “ that  I will  hear  no  disre- 
spectful word  of  that  young  lady  from  any  lips  ; and 
that  if  I knew  any  man — which  I hope  I do  not — whose 
taste  was  so  coarse,  and  whose  temper  was  so  overbear- 
ing, that  he  could  not  restrain  himself  from  speaking 
disrespectfully  of’that  young  lady  at  this  desk,  not  even 
Tellson’s  should  prevent  my  giving  him  a piece  of  my 
mind.” 

The  necessity  of  being  angry  in  a suppressed  tone  had 
put  Mr.  Stryver’s  blood-vessels  into  a dangerous  state 
when  it  was  his  turn  to  be  angry ; Mr.  Lorry’s  veins, 
methodical  as  their  courses  could  usually  be,  were  in  no 
better  state  now  it  was  his  turn. 

“ That  is  what  I mean  to  tell  you,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
u Pray  let  there  be  no  mistake  about  it.  ” 

Mr.  Stryver  sucked  the  end  of  a ruler  for  a little  while, 
and  then  stood  hitting  a tune  out  of  his  teeth  with  it, 
which  probably  gave  him  the  toothache.  He  broke  the 
awkward  silence  by  saying  : 

“ This  is  something  new  to  me,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  delib- 
erately advise  me  not  to  go  up  to  Soho  and  offer  myself — 
my  self,  Stryver  of  the  King’s  Bench  bar  ? ” 

“ Do  you  ask  me  for  my  advice,  Mr.  Stryver?  ” 

“ Yes  I do.” 

“Very  good.  Then  I give  it,  and  you  have  repeated 
it  correctly.  ” 

“ And  ail  I can  say  of  it,  is,”  laughed  Stryver  with  a 
vexed  laugh,  “that  this  — ha,  ha!  — beats  everything 
past,  present,  and  to  come.” 

“ Now  understand  me,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry.  “As  a 
man  of  business,  I am  not  justified  in  saying  anything 
about  this  matter,  for,  as  a man  of  business,  I know 
nothing  of  it.  But,  as  an  old  fellow,  who  has  carried 
Miss  Manette  in  his  arms,  who  is  the  trusted  friend  of 
Miss  Manette  and  of  her  father  too,  and  who  has  a great 
affection  for  them  both,  I have  spoken.  The  confidence 
is  not  of  my  seeking,  recollect.  Now,  you  think  I may 
not  be  right  ? ” 

“Not  I!”  said  Stryver,  whistling.  “I  can’t  under- 
take to  find  third  parties  in  common  sense  ; J can  only 


128 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


find  it  for  myself.  I suppose  sense  in  certain  quarters  ; 
you  suppose  mincing  bread-and-butter  nonsense.  It’s 
new  to  me,  but  you  are  right,  I dare  say.” 

“ What  I suppose,  Mr.  Stryver,  I claim  to  characterise 
for  myself.  And  understand  me,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
quickly  hushing  again.  “ I will  not — not  even  at  Tell- 
son’s — have  it  characterised  for  me  by  any  gentleman 
breathing.” 

“ There  ! I beg  your  pardon  ! ” said  Stryver. 

“ Granted.  Thank  you.  Well,  Mr.  Stryver,  I w&3 
about  to  say  : — it  might  be  painful  to  you  to  find  your- 
self mistaken,  it  might  be  painful  to  Doctor  Manette  to 
have  the  task  of  being  explicit  with  you,  it  might  be 
very  painful  to  Miss  Manette  to  have  the  task  of  being 
explicit  with  you.  You  know  the  terms  upon  which  I 
have  the  honour  and  happiness  to  stand  with  the  family. 
If  you  please,  committing  you  in  no  way,  representing 
you  in  no  way,  I will  undertake  to  correct  my  advice  by 
the  exercise  of  a little  new  observation  and  judgment 
expresssly  brought  to  bear  upon  it.  If  you  should  then 
be  dissatisfied  with  it,  you  can  but  test  its  soundness  for 
yourself  ; if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  should  be  satisfied 
with  it,  and  it  should  be  what  it  now  is,  it  may  spare  all 
sideg  what  is  best  spared.  What  do  you  say  ? ” 

“ How  long  would  you  keep  me  in  town  ? ” 

“ Oh  1 It  is  only  a question  of  a few  hours.  I could 
go  to  Soho  in  the  evening,  and  come  to  your  chambers 
afterwards.  ” 

“ Then  I say  yes,”  said  Stryver  : “I  won’t  go  up  there 
now,  I am  not  so  hot  upon  it  as  that  comes  to  ; I say  yes, 
and  I shall  expect  you  to  look  in  to-night.  “ Good- 
morning.  ” 

Then  Mr.  Stryver  turned  and  burst  out  of  the  Bank, 
causing  such  a concussion  of  air  on  his  passage  through, 
that  to  stand  up  against  it  bowing  behind  the  two  count- 
ers, required  the  utmost  remaining  strength  of  the  two 
ancient  clerks.  Those  venerable  and  feeble  persons  were 
always  seen  by  the  public  in  the  act  of  bowing,  and  were 
popularly  believed,  when  they  had  bowed  a customer 
out,  still  to  keep  on  bowing  in  the  empty  office  until  they 
bowed  another  customer  in. 

The  barrister  was  keen  enough  to  divine  that  the 
banker  would  not  have  gone  so  far  in  his  expression  of 
opinion  on  any  less  solid  ground  than  moral  certainty. 
Unprepared  as  he  was  for  the  large  pill  he  had  to  swal 
low,  he  got  it  down.  “ And  now,”  said  Mr.  Stryver, 
shaking  his  forensic  forefinger  at  the  Temple  in  general, 
when  it  was  down,  “my  way  out  of  this,  is,  to  put  you 
all  in  the  wrong.” 

It  was  a bit  of  the  art  of  an  Old  Bailey  tactician,  in 
which  he  found  great  relief.  “ You  shall  not  put  me  in 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


129 


the  wrong,  young  lady/’  said  Mr.  Stryver  ; “ I’ll  do  that 
for  you.” 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Lorry  called  that  night  as  late 
as  ten  o’clock,  Mr.  Stryver,  among  a quantity  of  books 
and  papers  littered  out  for  the  purpose,  seemed  to  have 
nothing  less  on  his  mind  than  the  subject  of  the  morn- 
ing. He  even  showed  surprise  when  he  saw  Mr.  Lorry, 
and  was  altogether  in  an  absent  and  preoccupied  state. 

“Well!”  said  that  good-natured  emissary,  after  a 
full  half  hour  of  bootless  attempts  tc  bring  him  round 
to  the  questipn,  “ I have  been  to  Soho.” 

“ To  Soho?”  repeated  Mr.  Stryver,  coldly.  “Oh,  to 
be  sure  ! What  am  I thinking  of  ! ” 

“ And  I have  no  doubt,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ that  I was 
right  in  the  conversation  we  had.  My  opinion  is  con- 
firmed, and  I reiterate  my  advice.” 

“ I assure  you,”  returned  Mr.  Stryver,  in  the  friend- 
liest way,  “ that  I am  sorry  for  it  on  your  account,  and 
sorry  for  it  on  the  poor  father’s  account.  I know  this 
must  always  be  a sore  subject  with  the  family  ; let  us 
say  no  more  about  it.  ” 

“ I don’t  understand  you,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ I dare  not  say  not,”  rejoined  Stryver,  nodding  his 
head  in  a smoothing  and  final  way  ; “no  matter,  no 
no  matter.” 

“ But  it  does  matter,”  Mr.  Lorry  urged. 

“ No  it  doesn’t ; I assure  you  it  doesn’t.  Having  sup- 
posed that  there  was  sense  where  there  is  no  sense,  and 
a laudable  ambition  where  there  is  not  a laudable  am- 
bition, I am  well  out  of  my  mistake,  and  no  harm  is 
done.  Young  women  have  committed  similar  follies 
often  before,  and  have  repented  them  in  poverty  and 
obscurity  often  before.  In  an  unselfish  aspect,  I am 
sorry  that  the  thing  is  dropped, because  it  would  have  been 
a bad  thing  for  me  a worldly  point  of  view  ; in  a selfish 
aspect,  I am  glad  that  the  thing  has  dropped,  because 
it  would  have  been  a bad  thing  for  me  in  a worldly  point 
of  view — it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  I could  have 
gained  nothing  by  it.  There  is  no  harm  at  all  done.  I 
have  not  proposed  to  the  young  lady,  and,  between  our- 
selves, I am  by  no  means  certain,  on  reflection,  that  I 
ever  should  have  committed  myself  to  that  extent.  Mr. 
Lorry,  you  cannot  control  the  mincing  vanities  and 
giddinesses  of  empty-headed  girls  ; you  must  not  expect 
to  do  it,  or  you  will  always  be  disappointed.  Now,  pray 
say  no  more  about  it.  I tell  you,  I regret  it  on  account 
of  others,  but  I am  satisfied  on  my  own  account.  And 
I am  really  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  allowing  me 
to  sound  you,  and  for  giving  me  your  advice  : you  know 
the  young  lady  better  than  I do  ; you  were  right,  it 
never  would  have  done.” 


130 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mr.  Lorry  was  so  taken  aback,  that  be  looked  quite 
stupidity  at  Mr.  Stryver  shouldering  him  towards  the 
door,  with  an  appearance  of  showering  generosity,  for- 
bearance, and  good  will,  on  his  erring  head.  “ Make 
the  best  of  it,  my  dear  sir,”  said  Stryver  ; 4 ‘say  no  more 
about  it ; thank  you  again  for  allowing  me  to.  sonns* 
you  ; good  night  ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  was  out  in  the  night,  before  he  knew  where 
he  was.  Mr.  Stryver  was  lying  back  on  his  sofa,  wink* 
ing  at  his  ceiling, 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  Fellow  of  no  Delicacy, 

Ip  Sydney  Carton  ever  shone  anywhere,  he  certainly 
never  shone  in  the  house  of  Doctor  Manette.  He  had 
been  there  often,  during  a whole  year,  and  had  always 
been  the  same  moody  and  morose  lounger  there.  When 
he  cared  to  talk,  he  talked  well  ; but,  the  cloud  of 
caring  for  nothing,  which  overshadowed  him  with  such 
a fatal  darkness,  was  very  rarely  pierced  by  the  light 
within  him. 

And  yet  he  did  care  something  for  the  streets  that 
environed  that  house,  and  for  the  senseless  stones  that 
made  their  pavements.  Many  a night  he  vaguely  and 
unhappily  wandered  there,  when  wine  had  brought  no 
transitory  dness  to  him  ; many  a dreary  daybreak 
reveah  1 his  solitary  figure  lingering  there,  and  still  lin- 
gering there  when  the  first  beams  of  the  sun  brought 
into  strong  relief,  removed  beauties  of  architecture  in 
spires  of  churches  and  lofty  buildings,  as  perhaps  the 
quiet  time  brought  some  sense  of  better  things,  else 
forgotte  and  unattainable,  into  his  mind.  Of  late,  the 
neglected  bed  in  the  Temple  court  had  known  him  more 
scantily  than  ever ; and  often  when  he  had  thrown  him- 
self upon  it  no  longer  than  a few  minutes,  he  had  got 
up  again,  and  haunted  that  neighborhood. 

On  a day  in  August,  when  Mr.  Stryver  (after  notify- 
ing to  his  jackal  that  “ he  had  thought  better  of  that 
marrying  matter”)  had  carried  his  delicacy  into  De- 
vonshire, and  when  the  sight  and  scent  of  flowers  in  the 
City  streets  had  some  waifs  of  goodness  in  them  for  the 
worst,  of  health  for  the  sickliest,  and  of  youth  for  the 
oldest,  Sydney’s  feet  still  trod  those  stones.  From  being 
irresolute  and  purposeless,  his  feet  became  animated  by 
an  intention,  and,  in  the  working  out  of  that  intention, 
they  took  him  to  the  Doctor’s  door. 

He  was  shown  up-stairs,  and  found  Lucie  at  her  work, 
alone.  She  had  never  been  quite  at  her  ease  with  him, 
and  received  him  with  some  little  embarrassment  as  he 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


131 


seated  himself  near  her  table.  But,  looking  up  at  his 
face  in  the  interchange  of  the  first  few  common-places, 
she  observed  a change  in  it. 

“ I fear  you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Carton  ! ” 

“No.  But  the  life  I lead,  Miss  Manette,  is  not  con- 
ducive to  health.  What  is  to  be  expected  of,  or  by, 
such  profligates  ? ” 

“ Is  it  not— forgive  me  ; I have  begun  the  question 
on  my  lips — a pity  to  live  no  better  life  ? ” 

“ God  knows  it  is  a shame  ! ” 

“Then  why  not  change  it  ?” 

Looking  gently  at  him  again,  she  was  surprised  and 
saddened  to  see  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  There 
were  tears  in  his  voice  too,  as  he  answered  : 

“ It  is  too  late  for  that.  I shall  never  be  better  than  I 
am.  I shall  sink  lower,  and  be  worse.,, 

He  leaned  an  elbow  on  her  table,  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand.  The  table  trembled  in  the  silence  that 
followed. 

She  had  never  seen  him  softened,  and  was  much  dis- 
tressed. He  knew  her  to  be  so,  without  looking  at  her, 
and  said  : 

“Pray  forgive  me,  Miss  Manette.  I break  down  be- 
fore the  knowledge  of  what  I want  to  say  to  you.  Will 
you  hear  me  ? ” 

“ If  it  will  do  you  any  good.  Mr.  Carton,  if  it  would 
make  you  any  happier,  it  would  make  me  very  glad  I” 

“ God  bless  you  for  your  sweet  compassion  ! ” 

He  unshaded  his  face  after  a little  while,  and  spoke 
steadily. 

“Dont  be  afraid  to  hear  me.  Don’t  shrink  from  any- 
thing I say.  I am  like  one  who  died  young.  All  my 
life  might  have  been.” 

“No,  Mr.  Carton.  I am  sure  that  the  best  part  of  it 
might  still  be  ; I am  sure  that  you  might  be  much, 
much,  worthier  of  yourself.” 

“ Say  of  you,  Miss  Manette,  and  although  I know 
better — although  in  the  mystery  of  my  own  wretched 
heart  I know  better — I shall  never  forget  it  ! ” 

She  was  pale  and  trembling.  He  came  to  her  relief 
with  a fixed  despair  of  himself  which  made  the  interview 
unlike  any  other  that  could  have  been  holden. 

“If  it  had  been  possible.  Miss  Manette,  that  you  could 
have  returned  the  love  of  the  man  you  see  before  you— 
self -flung  away,  wasted,  drunken,  poor  creature  of 
misuse  as  you  know  him  to  be — he  would  have  been 
conscious  this  day  and  hour,  in  spite  of  his  happiness, 
that  he  would  bring  you  to  misery,  bring  you  to  sorrow 
and  repentance,  blight  you,  disgrace  you,  pull  you 
down  with  him.  I know  very  well  that  you  can  have  no 


132 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tenderness  for  me  ; I ask  for  none  ; I am  even  thankful 
that  it  cannot  be.” 

“ Without  it,  can  I not  save  you,  Mr.  Carton?  Can  I 
not  recal  you — forgive  me  again  ! — to  a better  course  ! 
Can  I in  no  way  repay  your  confidence  ? I know  this  is 
a confidence,”  she  modestly  said,  after  a little  hesita- 
tion, and  in  earnest  tears,  “ I know  you  would  say  this 
to  no  one  else.  Can  I turn  it  to  no  good  account  for 
yourself,  Mr.  Carton  ? ” 

He  shook  his  head. 

“To  none.  No,  Miss  Manette,  to  none.  If  you  will 
hear  me  through  a very  little  more,  all  you  can  ever  do 
for  me  is  done.  I wish  you  to  know  that  you  have  been 
the  last  dream  of  my  soul.  In  my  degradation,  I have 
not  been  so  degraded  but  that  the  sight  of  you  with  your 
father,  and  of  this  home  made  such  a home  by  you,  has 
stirred  old  shadows  that  I had  thought  had  died  out  of 
me.  Since  I knew  you,  I have  beien  troubled  by  a remorse 
that  I thought  would  never  reproach  me  again,  and  have 
heard  whispers  from  old  voices  impelling  me  upward, 
that  I thought  were  silent  for  ever.  I have  had  un- 
formed ideas  of  striving  afresh,  beginning  anew,  shaking 
oif  sloth  and  sensuality,  and  fighting  out  the  abandoned 
fight.  A dream,  all  a dream,  that  ends  in  nothing, 
and  leaves  the  sleeper  where  he  lay  down,  but  I wish 
you  to  know  that  you  inspired  it.  ” 

“ Will  nothing  of  it  remain  ? O Mr.  Carton,  think 
again  ! Try  again  ! ” 

“ No,  Miss  Manette  ; all  through  it,  I have  known 
myself  to  be  quite  undeserving.  And  yet  I have  had  the 
weakness,  and  have  still  the  weakness,  to  wish  you  to 
know  with  what  a sudden  mastery  you  kindled  me,  heap 
of  ashes  that  I am,  into  fire — a fire,  however,  inseparable 
in  its  nature  from  myself,  quickening  nothing,  light- 
ing nothing,  doing  no  service,  idly  burning  away.” 

“ Since  it  is  my  misfortune,  Mr.  Carton,  to  have  made 
you  more  unhappy  than  you  .were  before  you  knew 
me — ” 

“ Don’t  say  that,  Miss  Manette,  for  you  would  have 
reclaimed  me,  if  anything  could.  You  will  not  be  the 
cause  of  my  becoming  worse.” 

“ Since  the  state  of  your  mind  that  you  describe  is,  at 
all  events,  attributable  to  some  influence  of  mine — this  is 
what  I mean,  if  I can  make  it  plain — can  I use  no  in- 
fluence to  serve  you  ? Have  I no  power  for  good,  with 
you,  at  all  ? ” 

“ The  utmost  good  that  I am  capable  of  now,  Miss 
Manette,  I have  come  here  to  realise.  Let  me  carry 
through  the  rest  of  my  misdirected  life,  the  remem- 
brance that  I opened  my  heart  to  you,  last  of  all  the 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


133 


tfvorld  ; and  that  there  was  something  left  in  me  at  this 
time  which  you  could  deplore  and  pity.” 

“ Which  I entreated  you  to  believe,  again  and  again, 
most  fervently,  with  all  my  heart,  was  capable  of  better 
things,  Mr.  Carton  ! ” 

“ Entreat  me  to  believe  it  no  more,  Miss  Manette.  I 
have  proved  myself,  and  I know  better.  I distress  you  ; 
I draw  fast  to  an  end.  Will  you  let  me  believe,  when  I 
re#al  this  day,  that  the  last  confidence  of  my  life  was 
reposed  in  your  pure  and  innocent  breast,  and  that  it 
lies  there  alone,  and  will  be  shared  by  no  one  ? ” 

“ If  that  will  be  a consolation  to  you,  yes.” 

“ Not  even  by  the  dearest  one  ever  to  be  known  to 
you  ? ” 

4 4 Mr.  Carton.”  she  answered,  after  an  agitated  pause, 
“ the  secret  is  yours,  not  mine  ; and  I promise  to  re- 
spect it.” 

“ Thank  you.  And  again,  God  bless  you.” 

He  put  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  moved  towards  the 
door. 

“ Be  under  no  apprehension,  Miss  Manette,  of  my  ever 
resuming  this  conversation  by  so  much  as  a passing 
word.  I will  never  refer  to  it  again.  If  I were  dead, 
that  could  not  be  surer  than  it  is  henceforth.  In  the 
hour  of  my  death,  I shall  hold  sacred  the  one  good  re- 
membrance— and  shall  thank  and  bless  you  for  it — that 
my  last  avowal  of  myself  was  made  to  you,  and  that  my 
name,  and  faults,  and  miseries,  were  gently  carried  in 
your  heart.  May  it  otherwise  be  light  and  happy  ! ” 

He  was  so  unlike  what  he  had  ever  shown  himself  to 
be,  and  it  was  so  sad  to  think  how  much  he  had  thrown 
away,  and  how  much  he  every  day  kept  down  and  per- 
verted, that  Lucie  Manette  wept  mournfully  for  him  as 
he  stood  looking  back  at  her. 

“ Be  comforted!”  he  said,  “I  am  not  worth  such 
feeling,  Miss  Manette.  An  hour  or  two  hence,  and  any 
low  companions  and  low  habits  that  I scorn  but  yield  to, 
will  render  me  less  worth  such  tears  as  those,  than  any 
wretch  who  creeps  along  the  streets.  Be  comforted  ! 
But,  within  myself,  I shall  always  be  towards  you,  what 
I am  now,  though  outwardly  I shall  be  what  you  have 
heretofore  seen  me.  The  last  supplication  but  one  I 
make  to  you,  is,  that  you  will  believe  this  of  me.” 

“I  will,  Mr.  Carton.” 

“ My  last  supplication  of  all,  is  this  ; and  with  it,  I 
will  relieve  you  of  a visitor  with  whom  I well  know  yon 
have  nothing  in  unison,  and  between  whom  and  you 
there  is  an  impassable  space.  It  is  useless  to  say  it,  I 
know,  but  it  rises  out  of  my  soul.  For  you,  and  for  any 
dear  to  you,  I would  do  anything.  If  my  career  were  of 
that  better  kind  that  there  was  any  opportunity  or 


134 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


capacity  of  sacrifice  in  it,  I would  embrace  any  sacrifice 
for  you  and  for  those  dear  to  you.  Try  to  hold  me  in 
your  mind,  at  some  quiet  times,  as  ardent  and  sincere  in 
this  one  thing.  The  time  will  come,  the  time  will  not 
be  long  in  coming,  when  new  ties  will  be  formed  about 
you — ties  that  will  bind  you  yet  more  tenderly  and 
strongly  to  the  home  you  so  adorn — the  dearest  ties  that 
will  ever  grace  and  gladden  you.  O Miss  Manette,  when 
the  little  picture  of  a happy  father’s  face  looks  up  in 
yours,  when  you  see  your  own  bright  beauty  springing 
up  anew  at  your  feet,  think  now  and  then  that  there  is 
a man  who  would  give  his  life,  to  keep  a life  you  love 
beside  you  ! ” 

He  said  “ Farewell  ! ” said  “ A last  God  bless  you  * ” 
and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  Honest  Tradesman. 

To  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Jeremiah  Cruncher,  sitting  on  his 
stool  in  Fleet-street  with  his  grisly  urchin  beside  him,  a 
vast  number  and  variety  of  objects  in  movement  were 
every  day  presented.  Who  could  sit  upon  anything  in 
Fleet-street  during  the  busy  hours  of  the  day,  and  not 
be  dazed  and  deafened  by  two  immense  processions,  one 
ever  tending  westward  with  the  sun,  the  other  ever  tend< 
ing  eastward  from  the  sun,  both  ever  tending  to  tb* 
plains  beyond  the  range  of  red  and  purple  where  the  sui 
goes  down  ! 

With  his  straw  in  his  mouth,  Mr.  Cruncher  sat  watch- 
ing the  two  streams,  like  the  heathen  rustic  who  has 
for  several  centuries  been  on  duty  watching  one  stream 
— saving  that  Jerry  had  no  expectation  of  their  ever  run- 
ning dry.  Nor  would  it  have  been  an  expectation  of  a 
hopeful  kind,  since  a small  part  of  his  income  was  de- 
rived from  the  pilotage  of  timid  women  (mostly  of  a full 
habit  and  past  the  middle  term  of  life)  from  Tellson’s 
side  of  the  tides  to  the  opposite  shore.  Brief  as  such 
companionship  was  in  every  separate  instance,  Mr. 
Cruncher  never  failed  to  become  so  interested  in  th« 
lady  as  to  express  a strong  desire  to  have  the  honour  of 
drinking  her  very  good  health.  And  it  was  from  the 
gifts  bestowed  upon  him  towards  the  execution  of  this 
benevolent  purpose,  that  he  recruited  his  finances,  as 
just  now  observed. 

Time  was,  when  a poet  sat  upon  a stool  in  a public 
place,  and  mused  in  the  sight  of  men.  Mr.  Cruncher 
sitting  on  a stool  in  a public  place,  but  not  being  a poet, 
mused  as  little  as  possible,  and  looked  about  him. 


THINK  THAT  THERE  IS  A MAN  WHO  WOULD  GIVE  HIS  LIFE  TO  KEEP  A LIFE  YOU  LOVE  BESIDE  YOU!” 

—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  VoL  Eleven,  page  135. 


136 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


It  fell  out  that  he  was  thus  engaged  in  a season  when 
crowds  were  few,  and  belated  women  few,  and  when  his 
affairs  in  general  were  so  unprosperous  as  to  awaken  a 
strong  suspicion  in  his  breast  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  must 
have  been  “ flopping”  in  some  pointed  manner,  when  an 
unusual  concourse  pouring  down  Fleet-street  westward, 
attracted  his  attention.  Looking  that  way,  Mr.  Cruncher 
made  out  that  some  kind  of  funeral  was  coming  along, 
and  that  there  was  popular  objection  to  this  funeral, 
which  engendered  uproar. 

“ Young  Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  turning  to  his  off- 
spring, “it’s  a buryin’.” 

“ Hooroar,  father  ! ” cried  young  Jerry. 

The  young  gentleman  uttered  this  exultant  sound 
with  mysterious  significance.  The  elder  gentleman  took 
the  cry  so  ill,  that  he  watched  his  opportunity,  and 
smote  the  young  gentleman  on  the  ear. 

“What  d’ye  mean?  What  are  you  hooroaring  at? 
What  do  you  want  to  conwey  to  your  own  father,  you 
young  Rip  ? This  boy  is  getting  too  many  for  me ! ” 
said  Mr.  Cruncher,  surveying  him.  “Him  and  his 
hooroars  ! Don’t  let  me  hear  no  more  of  you,  or  you 
shall  feel  some  more  of  me.  D’ye  hear?” 

“ I warn’t  doing  no  harm,”  Young  Jerry  protested, 
rubbing  his  cheek. 

“ Drop  it  then,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher  ; “I  won’t  have 
none  of  your  no  harms.  Get  a top  of  that  there  seat, 
and  look  at  the  crowd.” 

His  son  obeyed,  and  the  crowd  approached  ; they  were 
bawling  and  hissing  round  a dingy  hearse  and  dingy 
mourning  coach,  in  which  mourning  coach  there  was 
only  one  mourner,  dressed  in  the  dingy  trappings  that 
were  considered  essential  to  the  dignity  of  the  position. 
The  position  appeared  by  no  means  to  please  him,  how- 
ever, with  an  increasing  rabble  surrounding  the  coach, 
deriding  him,  making  grimaces  at  him,  and  incessantly 
groaning  and  calling  out  : “ Yah  ! Spies  ! Tst  ! Yaha  ! 
Spies  ! ” with  many  compliments  too  numerous  and  for- 
cible to  repeat. 

Funerals  had  at  all  times  a remarkable  attraction  for 
Mr.  Cruncher  ; he  always  pricked  up  his  senses,  and  be- 
came excited,  when  a funeral  passed  Tellson’s.  Natu- 
rally, therefore,  a funeral  with  this  uncommon  attendance 
excited  him  greatly,  and  he  asked  of  the  first  man  who 
ran  against  him  : 

“ What  is  it,  brother  ? What’s  it  about  ?” 

“7  don’t  know,”  said  the  man.  “Spies!  Yaha! 
Tst  ! Spies  ! ” 

He  asked  another  man.  “ Who  is  it?” 

“7  don’t  know,”  returned  the  man  : clapping  his 
hands  to  his  mouth  nevertheless,  and  vociferating  in  a 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


137 


surprising  heat  and  with  the  greatest  ardour,  “ Spies§ 
Yaha  ! Tst,  tst ! Spi-ies  !” 

At  length,  a person  better  informed  on  the  merits  of 
the  case,  tumbled  against  him,  and  from  this  person  he 
learned  that  the  funeral  was  the  funeral  of  one  Roger 
Cly. 

“ Was  He  a spy  ? ” asked  Mr.  Cruncher. 

Old  Bailey  spy,”  returned  his  informant.  " Yaha  ! 
Tst  ! Yah  ! Old"  Bailey  Spi-i-ies  ! ” 

" Why,  to  be  sure  !”  exclaimed  Jerry,  recalling  the 
Trial  at  which  he  had  assisted.  " I’ve  seen  him.  Dead, 
is  he  ? ” 

" Dead  as  mutton,”  returned  the  other,  "and  can’t  be 
too  dead.  Have  ’em  out,  there  ! Spies  ! Pull  ’em  out, 
there  ! Spies  ! ” 

The  idea  was  so  acceptable  in  the  prevalent  absence 
of  any  idea,  that  the  crowd  caught  it  up  with  eagerness, 
and  loudly  repeating  the  suggestion  to  have  ’em  out, 
and  to  pull  ’em  out,  mobbed  the  two  vehicles  so  closely 
‘hat  they  came  to  a stop.  On  the  crowds  opening  the 
coach  doors,  the  one  mourner  scuffled  out  of  himself  and 
was  in  their  hands  for  a moment ; but  he  was  so  alert, 
and  made  such  good  use  of  his  time,  that  in  in  another 
moment  he  was  scouring  away  up  a by-street,  after 
shedding  his  cloak,  hat,  long  hatband,  white  pocket, 
handkerchief,  and  other  symbolical  tears. 

These,  the  people  tore  to  pieces,  and  scattered  far  and 
wide  with  great  enjoyment,  while  the  tradesmen  hurriedly 
shut  up  their  shops  ; for  a crowd  in  those  times  stopped 
at  nothing,  and  was  a monster  much  dreaded.  They 
had  already  got  the  length  of  opening  the  hearse  to  taks 
the  coffin  out,  when  some  brighter  genius  proposed  in- 
stead, its  being  escorted  to  its  destination  amidst  general 
rejoicing.  Practical  suggestions  being  much  needed, 
this  suggestion,  too,  was  received  with  acclamation,  and 
the  coach  was  immediately  filled  with  eight  inside  and  s, 
dozen  out,  while  as  many  people  got  on  the  roof  of  the 
hearse  as  could  by  any  exercise  of  ingenuity  stick  upon 
it.  Among  the  first  of  these  volunteers  was  Jerry 
Cruncher  himself,  who  modestly  concealed  his  spiky 
head  from  the  observation  of  Tellson’s,  in  the  further 
corner  of  the  mourning  coach. 

The  officiating  undertakers  made  some  protest  against 
these  changes  in  the  ceremonies  ; but,  the  river  being 
alarmingly  near,  and  several  voices  remarking  on  the 
efficacy  of  cold  immersion  in  bringing  refractory  mem- 
bers of  the  profession  to  reason,  the  protest  was  faint 
and  brief.  The  remodelled  procession  started,  with  s 
chimney-sweep  driving  the  hearse — advised  by  the  reg- 
ular driver,  who  was  perched  beside  him,  under  close 
inspection,  for  the  purpose — and  with  a pieman,  also  at- 


139 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tended  by  his  cabinet  minister,  driving  the  mourning’ 
coach.  A bear-leader,  a popular  street  character  of  the 
time,  was  impressed  as  an  additional  ornament,  before 
the  cavalcade  had  gone  far  down  the  Strand  ; and  his 
bear,  who  was  black  and  very  mangy,  gave  quite  an 
Undertaking  air  to  that  part  of  the  procession  in  which 
he  walked. 

Thus,  with  beer-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  song-roaring, 
and  infinite  caricaturing  of  woe,  the  disorderly  proce  > 
sion  went  its  way,  recruiting  at  every  step,  and  all  the 
shops  shutting  up  before  it.  Its  destination  was  the  old 
church  of  Saint  Pancras,  far  off  in  the  fields.  It  got 
there  in  the  course  of  time  ; insisted  on  pouring  into  the 
burial-ground  ; finally  accomplished  the  interment  of 
the  deceased  Roger  Cly  in  its  own  way,  and  highly  to  its 
own  satisfaction. 

The  dead  man  disposed  of,  and  the  crowd  being  under 
the  necessity  of  providing  some  other  entertainment  for 
itself,  another  brighter  genius  (or  perhaps  the  same)  con- 
ceived the  humour  of  impeaching  casual  passers-by,  as 
Old  Bailey  spies,  and  wreaking  vengeance  on  them, 
Chase  was  given  to  some  scores  of  inoffensive  persons 
who  had  never  been  near  the  Old  Bailey  in  their  lives, 
in  the  realisation  of  this  fancy,  and  they  were  roughly 
hustled  and  maltreated.  The  transition  to  the  sport  of 
window-breaking,  and  thence  to  the  plundering  of  pub- 
lic-houses, was  easy  and  natural.  At  last,  after  several 
hours,  when  sundry  summer-houses  had  been  pulled 
down,  and  some  area  railings  had  been  torn  up,  to  arm 
the  more  belligerent  spirits,  a rumour  got  about  that  the 
Guards  were  coming.  Before  this  rumour,  the  crowd 
gradually  melted  away,  and  perhaps  the  Guards  came, 
and  perhaps  they  never  came,  and  this  was  the  usual 
progress  of  a mob. 

Mr.  Cruncher  did  not  assist  at  the  closing  sports,  but 
had  remained  behind  in  the  churchyard  to  confer  and 
condole  with  the  undertakers.  The  place  had  a soothing 
influence  on  him.  He  procured  a pipe  from  a neigh 
bouring  public-house,  and  smoked  it,  looking  in  at  the 
railings  and  maturely  considering  the  spot. 

“ Jerry, ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  apostrophising  himself  in. 
his  usual  way,  “you  see  that  there  Cly  that  day,  and 
you  see  with  your  own  eyes  that  he  was  a young  ’un  and 
a straight  made  ’un.” 

Having  smoked  his  pipe  out,  and  ruminated  a little 
longer,  he  turned  himself  about,  that  he  might  appear 
before  the  hour  of  closing,  on  his  station  at  Tellson’s. 
Whether  his  meditations  on  morality  had  touched  his 
liver,  or  whether  his  general  health  had  been  previously 
at  all  amiss,  or  whether  he  desired  to  show  a little  at- 
tention to  an  eminent  man,  is  not  so  much  to  the  pur- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


189 


pose,  as  that  he  made  a short  call  upon  his  medical  ad 
viser — a distinguished  surgeon — on  his  way  back. 

Young  Jerry  relieved  his  father  with  dutiful  interest, 
and  reported  No  job  in  his  absence.  The  bank  closed, 
the  ancient  ^Ierks  came  out,  the  usual  watch  was  set, 
and  Mr.  Cruncher  and  his  son  went  home  to  tea. 

“ Now,  I tell  you  where  it  is  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher  to 
his  wife,  on  entering.  “ If,  as  a honest  tradesman,  my 
wenturs  goes  wrong  to-night,  I shall  make  sure  that 
you’ve  been  praying  again  me,  and  I shall  work  you  for 
it  just  the  same  as  if  I seen  you  do  it.” 

The  dejected  Mrs.  Cruncher  shook  her  head. 

“ Why,  you’re  at  it  afore  my  face  ! ” said  Mr.  Crunch- 
er, with  signs  of  angry  apprehension. 

“ I am  saying  nothing.” 

“ Well,  then  ; don’t  meditate  nothing.  You  might  as 
well  flop  as  meditate.  You  may  as  well  go  again  me 
one  way  as  another.  Drop  it  altogether.  ” 

‘"Yes,  Jerry.” 

“ Yes,  Jerry,”  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher,  sitting  down  to 
tea.  “Ah!  It  is  yes,  Jerry.  That’s  about  it.  You 
may  say  yes,  Jerry.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  no  particular  meaning  in  these 
sulky  corroborations,  but  made  use  of  them,  as  people 
not  unfrequently  do,  to  express  general  ironical  dissatis 
faction. 

“You  and  your  yes,  Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  taking 
a bite  out  of  his  bread-and-butter,  and  seeming  to  help 
it  down  with  a large  invisible  oyster  out  of  his  saucer, 
“ Ah  ! I think  so.  I believe  you.” 

4‘  You  are  going  out  to-night?”  asked  his  decent  wife, 
when  he  took  another  bite. 

“Yes,  I am.” 

“ May  I go  with  you,  father?”  asked  his  son  briskly. 

“No,  you  mayn’t.  I’m  a going — as  your  mother 
knows — a fishing.  That’s  where  I’m  going  to.  Going 
a fishing.  ” 

“Your  fishing-rod  gets  rayther  rusty  ; don’t  it,  father  ? ” 

“Never  you  mind.” 

“ Shall  you  bring  any  fish  home,  father  ? ” 

“If  I don’t,  you’ll  have  short  commons  to-morrow,* 
returned  that  gentleman,  shaking  his  head  ; “ that’s 
questions  enough  for  you  ; I ain’t  a going  out,  till  you’ve 
been  long  a-bed.” 

He  devoted  himself  during  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing to  keeping  a most  vigilant  watch  on  Mrs.  Cruncher, 
and  sullenly  holding  her  in  conversation  that  she  might 
be  prevented  from  meditating  any  petitions  to  his  dis- 
advantage. With  this  view,  he  urged  his  son  to  hold 
her  in  conversation  also,  and  led  the  unfortunate  woman 
a hard  life  by  dwelling  on  any  causes  of  complaint  he 


140 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


could  bring  against  her,  ratber  than  he  would  leave  her 
for  a moment  to  her  own  reflections.  The  devoutest 
person  could  have  rendered  no  greater  homage  to  the 
efficacy  of  an  honest  prayer  than  he  did  in  this  distrust 
of  his  wife.  It  was  as  if  a professed  unbeliever  in 
ghosts  should  be  frightened  by  a ghost  story. 

“And  mind  you  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher.  “No  games 
to-morrow!  If  I,  as  a honest  tradesman,  succeed  in 
providing  a jinte  of  meat  or  two,  none  of  your  not  touch- 
ing of  it,  and  sticking  to  bread.  If  I,  as  a honest 
tradesman,  am  able  to  provide  a little  beer,  none  of  your 
declaring  on  water.  When  you  go  to  Rome,  do  as  Rome 
does.  Rome  will  be  a ugly  customer  to  you,  if  you 
don’t.  I’m  your  Rome,  you  know.” 

Then  he  began  grumbling  again  : 

“With  your  flying  into  the  face  of  your  own  wittles 
and  drink  ! I don’t  know  how  scarce  you  mayn’t  make 
the  wittles  and  drink  here,  by  your  flopping  tricks  and 
your  unfeeling  conduct.  Look  at  your  boy  ; he^s  your’n, 
ain’t  he  ? He’s  as  thin  as  a lath.  Do  you  call  yourself 
a mother,  and  not  know  that  a mother’s  first  duty  is  to 
blow  her  boy  out  ? ” 

This  touched  young  Jerry  on  a tender  place  ; who  ad- 
jured his  mother  to  perform  her  first  duty,  and,  what- 
ever else  she  did  or  neglected,  above  all  things  to  lay 
especial  stress  on  the  discharge  of  that  maternal  function 
so  affectingly  and  delicately  indicated  by  his  other  parent. 

Thus  the  evening  wore  away  with  the  Cruncher  fam- 
ily, until  Young  Jerry  was  ordered  to  bed,  and  his 
mother,  laid  under  similar  injunctions,  obeyed  them. 
Mr.  Cruncher  beguiled  the  earlier  watches  of  the  night 
with  solitary  pipes,  and  did  not  start  upon  his  excursion 
until  nearly  one  o’clock.  Towards  that  small  and  ghostly 
hour,  he  rose  up  from  his  chair,  took  a key  out  of  his 
pocket,  opened  a locked  cupboard,  and  brought  forth  a 
sack,  a crowbar  of  convenient  size,  a rope  and  chain,  and 
other  fishing-tackle  of  that  nature.  Disposing  these 
articles  about  him  in  skilful  manner,  he  bestowed  a 
parting  defiance  on  Mrs.  Cruncher,  extinguished  the 
light,  and  went  out. 

Young  Jerry,  who  had  only  made  a feint  of  undress- 
ing when  he  went  to  bed,  was  not  long  after  his  father. 
Under  cover  of  the  darkness  he  followed  out  of  the 
room,  followed  down  the  stairs,  followed  down  the  court, 
followed  out  into  the  streets.  He  was  in  no  uneasiness 
concerning  his  getting  into  the  house  again,  for  it  was 
full  of  lodgers,  and  the  door  stood  ajar  all  night. 

. Impelled  by  a laudable  ambition  to  study  the  art  and 
mystery  of  his  father’s  honest  calling,  Young  J^ry,  keep- 
mg  as  close  to  house- fronts,  walls,  and  doorwp"*^,  as  his 
eyes  were  close  to  one  another,  held  his  honoured  parent 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


141 


in  view.  The  honoured  parent  steering  Northward,  had 
not  gone  far/  when  he  was  joined  by  another  disciple  of 
Xzaak  Walton,  and  the  two  trudged  on  together. 

Within  half  an  hour  from  the  first  starting,  they  were 
beyond  the  winking  lamps,  and  the  more  than  winking 
watchmen,  and  were  out  upon  a lonely  road.  Another 
fisherman  was  picked  up  here — and  that  so  silently, 
that  if  Young  Jerry  had  been  superstitious,  he  might 
have  supposed  the  second  follower  of  the  gentle  craft 
to  have,  all  of  a sudden,  split  himself  into  two. 

The  three  went  on,  and  Young  Jerry  went  on,  until 
the  three  stopped  under  a bank  overhanging  the  road. 
Upon  the  top  of  the  bank  was  a low  brick  wall  sur 
mounted  by  an  iron  railing.  In  the  shadow  of  bank  and 
wall,  the  three  turned  out  of  the  road,  and  up  a blind 
lane,  of  which  the  wall — there,  risen  to  some  eight  or 
ten  feet  high — formed  one  side.  Crouching  down  in  a 
corner,  peeping  up  the  lane,  the  next  object  that  Young 
Jerry  saw,  was  the  form  of  his  honoured  parent,  pretty 
well  defined  against  a watery  and  clouded  moon,  nimbly 
scaling  an  iron  gate.  He  was  soon  over,  and  then  the 
second  fisherman  got  over,  and  then  the  third.  They  all 
dropped  softly  on  the  ground  within  the  gate,  and  lay 
there  a little — listening  perhaps.  Then,  they  moved 
away  on  their  hands  and  knees. 

It  was  now  Young  Jerry's  turn  to  approach  the  gate  : 
which  he  did,  holding  his  breath.  Crouching  down 
again  in  a corner  there,  and  looking  in,  he  made  out  the 
three  fishermen  creeping  through  some  rank  grass  ; and 
all  the  gravestones  in  the  churchyard — it  was  a large 
churchyard  that  they  were  in — looking  on  like  ghosts  in 
white,  while  the  church  towrer  itself  locked  on  like  the 
ghost  of  a monstrous  giant.  They  did  not  creep  far,  be- 
fore they  stopped  and  stood  upright.  And  then  they 
began  to  fish. 

They  fished  with  a spade,  at  first.  Presently  the  hon- 
oured parent  appeared  to  be  adjusting  some  instrument 
like  a great  corkscrew.  Whatever  tools  they  worked 
with,  they  worked  hard,  until  the  awful  striking  of  the 
church  clock  so  terrified  Young  Jerry,  that  he  made  off, 
with  his  hair  as  stiff  as  his  father’s. 

But,  his  long-cherished  desire  to  know  more  about 
these  matters,  not  only  stopped  him  in  his  running 
away,  hut  lured  him  hack  again.  They  were  still  fish 
ing  perseveringly,  when  he  peeped  in  at  the  gate  for 
the  second  time  ; but,  now  they  seemed  to  have  got  a 
bite.  There  was  a screwing  and  complaining  sound  down 
below,  and  their  bent  figures  were  strained,  as  if  by  a 
weight.  By  slow  degrees  the  weight  broke  away  the 
earth  upon  it,  and  came  to  the  surface.  Young  Jerry 
very  well  knew  what  it  would  be  ; but,  when  he  saw  itfl 


142 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  saw  his  honoured  parent  about  to  wrench  it  open, 
he  was  so  frightened,  being  new  to  the  sight,  that  he 
made  off  again,  and  never  stopped  until  had  run  a mile 
or  more. 

He  would  not  have  stopped  then,  for  anything  less 
necessary  than  breath,  it  being  a spectral  sort  of  race 
that  he  ran,  and  one  highly  desirable  to  get  to  the  end 
of.  He  had  a strong  idea  that  the  coffin  he  had  seen 
was  running  after  him  ; and,  pictured  as  hopping  on 
behind  him,  bolt  upright  upon  its  narrow  end,  always 
on  the  point  of  overtaking  him  and  hopping  on  at  his 
side — perhaps  taking  his  arm — it  was  a pursuer  to  shun. 
It  was  an  inconsistent  and  ubiquitous  fiend  too,  for, 
while  it  was  making  the  whole  night  behind  him  dread- 
ful, he  darted  out  into  the  roadway  to  avoid  dark  alleys, 
fearful  of  its  coming  hopping  out  of  them  like  a drop- 
sical boy’s  Kite  without  tail  and  wings.  It  hid  in 
doorways  too,  rubbing  its  horrible  shoulders  againsi 
doors,  and  drawing  them  up  to  its  ears,  as  if  it  were 
laughing.  It  got  into  shadows  on  the  road,  a^.d  lay 
cunningly  upon  its  back  to  trip  him  up.  All  this  time, 
it  was  incessantly  hopping  on  behind  him  and  gaining 
on  him,  so  that  when  the  boy  got  to  his  own  door  he 
had  reason  for  being  half  dead.  And  even  then  it 
would  not  leave  him,  but  followed  him  up-stairs  with 
a bump  on  every  stair,  scrambled  into  bed  with  him, 
and  bumped  down,  dead  and  heavy,  on  his  breast  when 
he  fell  asleep. 

From  his  oppressed  slumber,  Young  Jerry  in  his 
closet  was  awakened  after  daybreak  and  before  sun- 
sunrise,  by  the  presence  of  his  father  in  the  family 
room.  Something  had  gone  wrong  with  him  ; at  least, 
so  Young  Jerry  inferred,  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
holding  Mrs.  Cruncher  by  the  ears,  and  knocking  the 
back  of  head  against  the  head-board  of  the  bed. 

“ I told  you  I would,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  “ and  I did,” 

“ Jerry,  Jerry,  Jerry  ! ” his  wife  implored. 

“You  oppose  yourself  to  the  profit  of  the  business,” 
said  Jerry,  “and  me  and  my  partners  suffer.  You 
was  to  honour  and  obey  ; why  the  devil  don’t  you?  ” 

“Til  try  to  be  a good  wife,  Jerry,”  the  poor  woman 
protested,  with  tears. 

“Is  it  being  a good  wife  to  oppose  your  husband’s 
business  ? Is  it  honouring  your  husband  to  dishonour 
his  business  ? Is  it  obeying  your  husband  to  disobey 
him  on  the  wital  subject  of  his  business  ? ” 

“ You  hadn’t  taken  to  the  dreadful  business  then, 
Jerry.” 

“It’s  enough  for  you,”  retorted  Mr.  Cruncher,  “ to  be 
the  wife  of  a honest  tradesman,  and  not  to  occupy 
your  female  mind  with  calculations  when  he  took  to 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


143 


his  trade  or  when  he  didn'.t.  A honouring  and  obey- 
ing wife  would  let  his  trade  alone  altogether.  Call 
yourself  a religious  woman.  If  you're  a religious  wo- 
man, give  me  a irreligious  one  ! You  have  no  more 
nat’ral  sense  of  duty  than  the  bed  of  this  here  Thames 
river  lias  of  a pile,  and  similarly  it  must  be  knocked 
into  you." 

The  altercation  was  conducted  in  a low  tone  of  voice, 
and  terminated  in  the  honest  tradesman's  kicking  oil 
his  clay-soiled  boots,  and  lying  down  at  his  length  on 
the  floor.  After  taking  a timid  peep  at  him  lying  on 
his  back,  with  his  rusty  hands  under  his  head  for  a 
pillow,  his  son  lay  down  too,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

There  was  no  fish  for  breakfast,  and  not  much  of 
anything  else.  Mr.  Cruncher  was  out  of  spirits,  and  out 
of  temper,  and  kept  an  iron  pot-lid  by  him  as  a pro- 
jectile for  the  correction  of  Mrs.  Cruncher,  in  case  he 
should  observe  any  symptoms  of  her  saying  Grace. 
He  was  brushed  and  washed  at  the  usual  hour,  and 
set  oft ‘with  his  son  to  pursue  his  ostensible  calling. 

Young  Jerry,  walking  with  the  stool  under  his  arm 
at  his  father's  side  along  sunny  aud  crowded  Fleet- 
street,  was  a very  different  Young  Jerry  from  him  of 
the  previous,  night,  running  home  through  darkness  and 
solitude  from  his  grim  pursuer.  His  cunning  was  fresh 
with  the  day,  and  his  qualms  were  gone  with  the  night 
—in  which  particulars  it  is  not  improbable  that  he  had 
compeers  in  Fleet-street  and*  the  City  of  London  that 
fine  morning. 

“Father,"  said  young  Jerry,  as  they  walked  along  ; 
taking  care  to  keep  at  arm's  length  and  to  have  the 
stool  well  between  them : “ What’s  a Resurrection- 
Man  ? " 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  to  a stop  on  the  pavement  before 
he  answered,  “ How  should  I know  ? " 

“ I thought  you  knowed  everything,  father,"  said  the 
artless  boy." 

“Hem!  Well,"  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  going  on 
again,  and  lifting  off  his  hat  to  give  his  spikes  free 
play,  “he's  a tradesman." 

“ What's  his  goods,  father  V”  asked  the  brisk  Young 
Jerry. 

“ His  goods,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  turning  it  over 
in  his  mind,  “ is  a branch  of  Scientific  goods." 

“ Persons'  bodies,  ain't  it,  father  ? " asked  the  lively 
boy. 

“I  believe  it  is  something  of  that  sort,"  said  Mr. 
Cruncher. 

“Oh,  father,  I should  so  like  to  be  a Resurrection- 
Man  when  I'm  quite  growed  up  ! " 

Mr,  Cruncher  was  soothed,  but  shook  his  head  in  a 


144 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dubious  and  moral  way.  “ It  depends  upon  bow  you  da 
welop  your  talents.  Be  careful  to  dewelop  your  talents, 
and  never  to  say  no  more  than  you  can  help  to  nobody, 
and  there’s  no  telling  at  the  present  time  what  you  may  not 
come  to  be  fit  for.”  As  Young  Jerry,  thus  encouraged, 
went  on  a few  yards  in  advance,  to  plant  the  stool  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Bar,  Mr.  Cruncher  added  to  himself  : 
“Jerry,  you  honest  tradesman,  there’s  hopes  wot  that 
boy  will  yet  be  a blessing  to  you,  and  a recompense  to 
you,  for  his  mother  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XV, 

Knitting. 

There  had  been  earlier  drinking  than  usual  in  the 
wine-shop  of  Monsieur  Defarge.  As  early  as  six  o’clock 
in  the  morning,  sallow  faces  peeping  through  its  barred 
windows  had  descried  other  faces  within,  bending  over 
measures  of  wine.  Monsieur  Defarge  sold  a very  thin 
wine  at  the  best  of  times,  but  it  would  seem  to  have 
been  an  unusually  thin  wine  that  he  sold  at  this  time. 
A sour  wine,  moreover,  or  a souring,  for  its  influence  on 
the  mood  of  those  who  drank  it  was  to  make  them 
gloomy.  No  vivacious  Bacchanalian  flame  leaped  out  of 
the  pressed  grape  of  Monsieur  Defarge  : but,  a smoulder- 
ing fire  that  burnt  in  the  dark,  lay  hidden  in  the  dregs 
of  it. 

This  had  been  the  third  morning  in  succession,  on 
which  there  had  been  early  drinking  at  the  wine-shop  of 
Monsieur  Defarge.  It  had  begun  on  Monday,  and  here 
was  Wednesday  come.  There  had  been  more  of  early 
brooding  than  drinking  ; for,  many  men  had  listened 
and  whispered  and  slunk  about  there  from  the  time  of 
the  opening  of  the  door,  who  could  not  have  laid  a piec6 
of  money  on  the  counter  to  save  their  souls.  These  were 
to  the  full  as  interested  in  the  place,  however,  as  if  they 
could  have  commanded  whole  barrels  of  wine  ; and  they 
glided  from  seat  to  seat,  and  from  corner  to  corner, 
swallowing  talk  in  lieu  of  drink,  with  greedy  looks. 

Notwithstanding  an  unusual  flow,  of  company,  the 
master  of  the  wine -shop  was  not  visible.  He  was  not 
missed  ; for,  nobody  who  crossed  the  threshold  looked 
for  him,  nobody  asked  for  him,  nobody  wondered  to  see 
only  Madame  Defarge  in  her  seat,  presiding  over  the  dis- 
tribution of  wine,  with  a bowl  of  battered  small  coins 
• before  her,  as  much  defaced  and  beaten  out  of  there 
original  impress  as  the  small  coinage  of  humanity  from 
whose  ragged  pockets  they  had  come. 

A suspended  interest  and  a prevalent  absence  of  mind. 


A.  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


145 


were  perhaps  observed  by  the  spies  who  looked  in  at  the 
wine-shop,  as  they  looked  in  at  every  place,  high  and 
low,  from  the  king’s  palace  to  the  criminal’s  goal. 
Games  at  cards  languished,  players  at  dominoes  musing- 
ly built  towers  with  them,  drinkers  drew  figures  on  the 
tables  with  spilt  drops  of  wine,  Madame  Defarge  herself 
picked  out  the  pattern  on  her  sleeve  with  her  toothpick, 
and  saw  and  heard  something  inaudible  and  invisible  a 
long  way  off. 

Thus,  Saint  Antoine  in  this  vinous  feature  of  his,  un- 
til midday.  It  was  high  noontide,  when  two  dusty  men 
passed  through  his  streets  and  under  his  swinging 
lamps  : of  whom,  one  was  Monsieur  Defarge  : the  other, 
a mender  of  roads  in  a blue  cap.  All  adust  and  athirst, 
the  two  entered  the  wine-shop.  Their  arrival  had 
lighted  a kind  of  fire  in  the  breast  of  Saint  Antoine,  fast 
spreading  as  they  came  along,  which  stirred  and  flickered 
in  flames  of  faces  at  most  doors  and  windows.  Yet,  no 
one  had  followed  them,  and  no  man  spoke  when  they 
entered  the  wine-shop,  though  the  eyes  of  every  man 
there  were  turned  upon  them. 

“ Good  day,  gentlemen  ! ” said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

It  may  have  been  a signal  for  loosening  the  general 
tongue.  It  elicited  an  answering  chorus  of  “Good 
day  ! ” 

“ It  is  bad  weather,  gentlemen,”  said  Defarge,  shak- 
ing his  head. 

Upon  which,  every  man  looked  at  his  neighbour,  and 
then  all  cast  down  their  eyes  and  sat  silent.  Except  one 
man,  who  got  up  and  went  out. 

“ My  wife,”  said  Defarge  aloud,  addressing  Madame 
Defarge  ; “I  have  travelled  certain  leagues  with  this 
good  mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques.  I met  him— by 
accident — a day  and  a half’s  journey  out  of  Paris.  He 
is  a good  child,  this  mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques. 
Give  him  to  drink,  my  wife  ! ” 

A second  man  got  up  and  went  out.  Madame  Defarge 
set  wine  before  the  mender  of  roads  called  Jacques,  who 
doffed  his  blue  cap  to  the  company,  and  drank.  In  the 
breast  of  his  blouse,  he  carried  some  coarse  dark  bread  ; 
he  ate  of  this  between  whiles,  and  sat  munching  and 
drinking  near  Madame  Defarge’s  counter.  A third  man 
got  up  and  went  out. 

Defarge  refreshed  himself  with  a draught  of  wine— 
but,  he  took  les$  than  was  given  to  the  stranger,  as  be 
ing  himself  a man  to  whom  it  was  no  rarity — and  stood 
waiting  until  the  countryman  had  made  his  breakfast. 
He  looked  at  no  one  present,  and  now  no  one  looked  at 
him  ; not  even  Madame  Defarge,  who  had  taken  up  her 
knit,  ing,  and  was  at  work.  %, 


146 


Works  of  charles  dickens. 


' fen 


<e  Have  you  finished  your  repast,  frier#!  ? ” he  asked,. 
In  due  season. 

“ Yes,  thank  you.” 

44  Come  then  ! You  shall  see  the  apartment  that  I 
told  you  you  could  occupy.  It  will  suit  you  to  a mar- 
vel.” 

Out  of  the  wine-shop  into  the  street,  out  of  the  street 
, into  a court-yard,  out  of  the  court-yard  up  a steep  stair- 
case, out  of  the  staircase  into  a garret — formerly  the 
garret  where  a white-haired  man  sat  on  a low  bench, 
stooping  forward  and  very  busy  making  shoes. 

No  white-haired  man  was  there  now  ; but  the  three 
men  were  there  who  had  gone  out  of  the  wine-shop 
singly.  And  between  them  and  the  white-haired  man 
afar  off,  was  the  one  small  link,  that  they  had  once  looked 
in  at  him  through  the  chinks  in  the  wall. 

Defarge  closed  the  door  carefully,  and  spoke  in  a 
subdued  voice  : 

44  Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  Three  ! This  is 
the  witness  encountered  by  appointment,  by  me,  Jacques 
Four.  He  will  tell  you  all.  Speak,  Jacques  Five  !” 

The  mender  of  roads,  blue  cap  in  hand,  wiped  his 
swarthy  forehead  with  it,  and  said,  44  Where  shall  I 
commence,  monsieur  ?” 

44  Commence,”  was  Monsieur  Defarge's  not  unreason- 
able reply,  44  at  the  commencement.” 

44  I saw  him  then,  messieurs,”  began  the  mender  of 
roads,  4 4 a year  ago  this  running  summer,  underneath 
the  carriage  of  the  Marquis,  hanging  by  the  chain. 
Behold  the  manner  of  it.  I leaving  my  work  on  the 
road,  the  sun  going  to  bed,  the  carriage  of  the  Marquis 
slowly  ascending  the  hill,  he  hanging  by  the  chain — like 
this.” 

Again  the  mender  of  roads  went  through  the  old  per- 
formance ; in  which  he  ought  to  have  been  perfect  by 
that  time,  seeing  that  it  had  been  the  infallible  resource 
and  indispensable  entertainment  of  his  village  during 
a whole  year. 

Jacques  One  struck  in,  and  asked  if  he  had  ever  seen 
the  man  before  ? 

44  Never,”  answered  the  mender  of  roads,  recovering 
his  perpendicular. 

Jacques  Three  demanded  how  he  afterwards  recognised 
him  then? 

44  By  his  tall  figure,”  said  the  mender  of  roads,  softly, 
and  with  his  finger  at  his  nose.  44  When  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  demands  that  evening,  4 Say,  what  is  he  like  V 
I make  response,  4 Tall  as  a spectre/  ” 

44  You  should  h$re  said,  short  as  a dwarf,”  returned 
Jacques  Two. 

44  But  what  did  I know  I The  deed  was  not  then  ac- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


147 


ooxnplished,  neither  did  he  confide  in  me.  Observe! 
Under  those  circumstances  even,  I do  not  offer  my  testi- 
mony. Monsieur  the  Marquis  indicates  me  with  his  finger, 
standing  near  our  little  fountain,  and  says,  ‘ To  me  ! 
Bring  that  rascal  ! ' My  faith,  messieurs,  I offer  noth- 
■ing.  ’ ’ 

“He  is  right  there,  Jacques, ” murmured  Defarge,  to 
him  who  had  interrupted.  “Go  on  !” 

“ Good  P’  said  the  mender  of  roads,  with  an  air  of 
mystery.  “ The  tall  man  is  lost,  and  he  is  sought — how 
many  months  ? Nine,  ten,  eleven  ? ” 

“ No  matter,  the  number,  ” said  Defarge.  “ He  is 
well  hidden,  but  at  last  he  is  unluckily  found.  Gc 
on  J” 

“ I am  again  at  work  upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  sun 
is  again  about  to  go  to  bed.  I am  collecting  my  tools  to 
descend  to  my  cottage  down  in  the  village  below,  where 
it  is  already  dark,  when  I raise  my  eyes,  and  see  coming 
over  the  hill,  six  soldiers.  In  the  midst  of  them  is  a tall 
man  with  his  arms  bound — tied  to  his  sides,  like  this  l ” 

With  the  aid  of  his  indispensable  cap,  he  represented 
a man  with  his  elbows  bound  fast  at  his  hips,  with  cords 
that  were  knotted  behind  him. 

I stand  aside  messieurs,  by  my  heap  of  stones,  to 
see  the  soldiers  and  their  prisoner  pass  (for  it  is  a soli- 
tary road,  that,  where  any  spectacle  is  well  worth  look- 
ing at),  and  at  first,  as  they  approach,  I see  no  more  than 
that  they  are  six  soldiers  with  a tall  man  bound,  and  that 
they  are  almost  black  to  my  sight — except  on  the  side  of 
the  sun  going  to  bed,  where  they  have  a red  edge,  mes- 
sieurs. Also,  I see  that  their  long  shadows  are  on  the 
hollow  ridge  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  are  on 
the  hill  above  it,  and  are  like  the  shadows  of  giants. 
Also,  I see  that  they  are  covered  with  dust,  and  that  the 
dust  moves  with  them  as  they  come,  tramp,  tramp  ! 
But  when  they  advance  quite  near  to  me,  I recognise 
the  tall  man,  and  he  recognises  me.  Ah,  but  he  would 
be  well  content  to  precipitate  himself  over  the  hill -side 
once  again,  as  on  the  evening  when  he  and  I first  en- 
countered, close  to  the  same  spot  ! ” 

He  described  it  as  if  he  were  there,  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  saw  it  vividly  ; perhaps  he  had  not  seen  much 
in  his  life. 

“I  do  not  show  the  soldiers  that  I recognise  the  tall 
man  ; he  does  not  show  the  soldiers  that  he  recognises 
me  ; we  do  it,  and  we  know  it,  with  our  eyes.  ‘ Come« 
on  ! ’ says  the  chief  of  that  company,  pointing  to  the  vil- 
lage, ‘ bring  him  fast  to  his  tomb  P and  they  bring  him 
faster.  I follow.  His  arms  are  swelled  because  of  being 
bound  so  tight,  his  wooden  shoes  are  large  and  clumsy, 


148 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  lie  is  lame.  Because  he  is  lame,  and  consequently 
slow,  they  drive  him  with  their  guns — like  this  ! " 

He  imitated  the  action  of  a man's  being  impelled  for- 
ward by  the  butt-ends  of  muskets. 

* ‘As  they  descend  the  hill  like  madmen  running  a 
race,  he  falls.  They  laugh,  and  pick  him  up  again. 
His  face  is  bleeding  and  covered  with  dust,  but  he  can- 
not touch  it ; thereupon  they  laugh  again.  They  bring 
him  into  the  village  ; all  the  village  runs  to  look  ; they 
take  him  past  the  mill,  and  up  to  the  prison  ; all  the  vil- 
lage sees  the  prison  gate  open  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  and  swallow  him — like  this  ! " 

He  opened  his  mouth  as  wide  as  he  could,  and  shut  it 
w\ th  a sounding  snap  of  his  teeth.  Observant  of  his  un- 
willingness to  mar  the  effect  by  opening  it  again,  De« 
farge  said,  “Goon,  Jacques." 

‘‘All  the  village,"  pursued  the  mender  of  roads,  o& 
tiptoe  and  in  a low  voice,  “ withdraws  ; all  the  village 
whispers  by  the  fountain  ; all  the  village  sleeps  : all  the 
village  dreams  of  that  unhappy  one,  within  the  locks 
and  bars  of  the  prison  on  the  crag,  and  never  to  come 
out  of  it,  expect  to  perish.  In  the  morning,  with  my 
tools  upon  my  shoulder,  eating  my  morsel  of  black  bread 
as  I go,  I made  a circuit  by  the  prison,  on  my  way  to  my 
work.  There,  I see  him,  high  up,  behind  the  bars  of  a 
lofty  iron  cage,  bloody  and  dusty  as  last  night,  looking 
through.  He  has  no  hand  free,  to  wave  to  me  ; I dare 
not  call  to  him  ; he  regards  me  like  a dead  man." 

Defarge  and  the  three  glanced  darkly  at  one  another. 
The  looks  of  all  of  them  were  dark,  repressed,  and  re- 
vengeful, as  they  listened  to  the  countryman's  story  ; 
the  manner  of  all  of  them,  while  it  was  secret  was 
authoritative  too.  They  had  the  air  of  a rough  tribunal ; 
Jacques  One  and  Two  sitting  on  the  old  pallet-bed,  each 
with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  intent  on 
the  road  mender  ; Jacques  Three,  equally  intent,  on  one 
knee  behind  them,  with  his  agitated  hand  always  gliding 
over  the  network  of  fine  nerves  about  his  mouth,  and 
nose  ; Defarge  standing  between  them  and  the  narrator, 
whom  he  had  stationed  in  the  light  of  the  window,  by 
turns  looking  from  him  to  them,  and  from  them  to  him. 

“ Go  on,  Jacques,"  said  Defarge. 

“ He  remains  up  there  in  his  iron  cage,  some  days, 
The  village  looks  at  him  by  stealth,  for  it  is  afraid.  BuA 
It  always  rooks  up,  from  a distance,  at  the  prison  on  the 
crag  ; and  in  the  evening  when  the  work  of  the  day  is 
achieved  and  it  assembles  to  gossip  at  the  fountain,  all 
faces  are  turned  towards  the  prison.  Formerly,  they  were 
turned  towards  the  posting -house  ; now,  they  are  turned 
towards  the  prison.  They  whisper  at  the  fountain  that 
although  condemned  to  death  he  will  not  be  executed ; 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


149 


they  say  that  petitions  have  been  presented  in  Paris, 
showing  that  he  was  enraged  and  made  mad  by  the 
death  of  his  child  ; they  say  that  a petition  has  been 
presented  to  the  King  himself.  What  do  I know  ? It  is 
possible.  Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no.” 

44  Listen  then,  Jacques/’  Number  One  of  that  name 
sternly  interposed.  44  Know  that  a petition  was  pre- 
sented to  the  King  and  Queen.  All  here,  yourself  ex- 
cepted, saw  the  King  take  it,  in  his  carriage  in  the  street, 
sitting  beside  the  Queen.  It  is  Defarge  whom  you  see 
here,  who,  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  darted  out  before 
the  horses,  with  the  petition  in  his  hand.” 

44  And  once  again  listen,  Jacques  ! ” said  the  kneeling 
Number  Three  : his  fingers  ever  wandering  over  and 
over  those  fine  nerves,  with  a strikingly  greedy  air,  as  if 
he  hungered  for  something — that  was  neither  food  nor 
drink;  “ the  guard,  horse  and  foot,  surrounded  the 
the  petitioner,  and  struck  him  blows.  You  hear?” 

“ I hear,  messieurs.” 

“ Go  on  then,”  said  Defarge. 

44  Again  ; on  the  other  hand,  they  whisper  at  the  foun- 
tain,” resumed  the  countryman/4  that  he  is  brought  down 
into  our  country  to  be  executed  on  the  spot,  and  that  he 
will  very  certainly  be  executed.  They  even  whisper  that 
because  he  has  slain  Monseigneur,  and  because  Monseig- 
neur  was  the  father  of  his  tenants— serfs — what  you  will 
— he  will  be  executed  as  a parricide.  One  old  man  says 
at  the  fountain,  that  his  right  hand,  armed  with  the 
knife,  will  be  burnt  off  before  his  face  ; that,  into  wounds 
which  will  be  made  in  his  arms,  his  breast,  and  his  legs, 
there  will  be  poured  boil  ing  oil,  melted  lead,  hot  resin,  wax, 
and  sulphur  ; finally,  that  he  will  be  torn  limb  from  limb 
by  four  strong  horses.  That  old  man  says,  all  this  was 
actually  done  to  a piisoner  who  made  an  attempt  on  the 
life  of  the  last  King,  Louis  Fifteen.  But  how  do  I know 
if  he  lies  ? I am  not  a scholar.” 

44  Listen  once  again  then,  Jacques  !”  said  the  man  with 
the  restless  hand  and  the  craving  air.  44  The  name  of 
that  prisoner  was  Damiens,  and  it  was  all  done  in  open 
day,  in  the  open  streets  of  this  city  of  Paris  ; and  noth- 
ing was  more  noticed  in  the  vast  concourse  that  saw  it 
done,  than  the  crowd  of  ladies  of  quality  and  fashion, 
who  were  full  of  eager  attention  to  the  last — to  the  last, 
Jacques,  prolonged  until  nightfall,  when  he  had  lost  two 
legs,  and  an  arm,  and  still  breathed  I And  it  was  done 
— why,  how  old  are  you  ? ” 

44  Thirty-five,”  said  the  mender  of  roads,  who  looked 
sixty. 

44  It  was  done  when  you  were  more  than  ten  years  old" 
you  might  have  seen  it.” 


150 


WORKS  CP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Enough  ! ” said  Defarge,  with  grim  impatience. 
•‘Long  live  the  Devil  ! Go  on.” 

“ Well  ! Some  whisper  this,  some  whisper  that ; they 
speak  of  nothing  else  ; even  the  fountain  appears  to  fall 
to  that  tune.  At  length,  on  Sunday  night  when  all  the 
village  is  asleep,  come  soldiers,  winding  down  from  the 
prison,  and  their  guns  ring  on  the  stones  of  the  little 
street.  Workmen  dig,  workmen  hammer,  soldiers  laugh 
and  sing  ; in  the  morning,  by  the  fountain,  there  is  raised 
a gallows  forty  feet  high,  poisoning  the  water.” 

The  mender  of  roads  looked  through  rather  than  at  the 
low  ceiling,  and  pointed  as  if  he  saw  the  gallows  some- 
where in  the  sky. 

“All  work  is  stopped,  all  assemble  there,  nobody  leads 
the  cows  out,  the  cows  are  there  with  the  rest.  At  mid- 
day, the  roll  of  drums.  Soldiers  have  marched  into  the 
prison  in  the  night,  and  he  is  in  the  midst  of  many  sol- 
diers. He  is  bound  as  before,  and  in  his  mouth  there  is  a 
gag — tied  so,  with  a tight  string,  making  him  look  almost 
as  if  he  laughed.  ” He  suggested  it,  by  creasing  his  face 
with  his  two  thumbs,  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to 
his  ears.  “ On  the  top  of  the  gallows  is  fixed  the  knife, 
blade  upwards,  with  its  point  in  the  air.  He  is  hanged 
there  forty  feet  high — and  is  left  hanging,  poisoning  the 
water.” 

They  looked  at  one  another,  as  he  used  his  blue  cap 
wipe  his  face,  on  which  the  perspiration  had  started 
afresh  while  he  recalled  the  spectacle. 

“ It  is  frightful,  messieurs.  How  can  the  women  and 
the  children  draw  water  ! Who  can  gossip  of  an  even- 
ing, under  that  shadow  ! Under  it,  have  I said  ? When 
I left  the  village,  Monday  evening  as  the  sun  was  going 
to  bed,  and  looked  back  from  the  hill,  the  shadow  struck 
across  the  church,  across  the  mill,  across  the  prison — 
seemed  to  strike  across  the  earth,  messieurs,  to  where 
the  sky  rests  upon  it  ! ” 

The  hungry  man  gnawed  one  of  his  fingers  as  he  looked 
at  the  other  three,  and  his  finger  quivered  with  the  crav- 
ing that  was  on  him. 

“ That’s  all,  messieurs.  I left  at  sunset  (as  I had  been 
warned  to  do),  and  1 walked  on,  that  night  and  half  next 
day,  until  I met  (as  I was  warned  I should)  this  comrade. 
With  him,  I came  on,  now  riding  and  now  walking, 
through  the  rest  of  yesterday  and  through  last  night. 
And  here  you  see  me  ! ” 

After  a gloomy  silence,  the  first  Jacques  said,  “Good  ! 
You  have  acted  and  recounted,  faithfully.  Will  you 
wait  for  us  a little,  outside  the  door  V* 

“ Very  willingly,”  said  the  mender  of  roads.  Whom 
Defarge  escorted  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and,  leaving 
Seated  there,  returned. 


152 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  three  had  risen,  and  their  heads  were  together 
when  he  came  back  to  the  garret. 

“How  say  you,  Jacques?”  demanded  Number  One. 
*4  To  be  registered  ? ” 

44  To  be  registered,  as  doomed  to  destruction,”  returned 
Defarge. 

44  Magnificent  ! ” croaked  the  man  with  the  craving. 

44  The  chateau,  and  all  the  race  !”  inquired  the  first. 

“The  chateau  and  all  the  race,”  returned  Defarge. 

Extermination.” 

The  hungry  man  repeated,  in  a rapturous  croak, 44  Mag- 
nificent ! ” and  began  gnawing  another  finger. 

44  Are  you  sure,”  asked  Jacques  Two,  of  Defarge,  44  that 
no  embarrassment  can  arise  from  our  manner  of  keeping 
the  register  ? Without  doubt  it  is  safe,  for  no  one  beyond 
ourselves  can  decipher  it ; but  shall  we  always  be  able  to 
decipher  it — or,  I ought  to  say,  will  she  ? ” 

44  Jacques,”  returned  Defarge,  drawing  himself  up, 
44  if  madame  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  the  register  in 
her  memory  alone,  she  would  not  lose  a word  of  it — not 
a syllable  of  it.  Knitted,  in  her  own  stitches,  and  her 
own  symbols,  it  will  always  be  as  plain  to  her  as  the 
sun.  Confide  in  Madame  Defarge.  It  would  be  easier 
for  the  weakest  poltroon  that  lives,  to  erase  himself  from 
existence,  -than  to  erase  one  letter  of  his  name  or  crimes 
from  the  knitted  register  of  Madame  Defarge.” 

There  was  a murmur  of  confidence  and  approval,  and 
then  the  man  who  hungered,  asked  : 4 4 Is  this  rustic  to 
be  sent  back  soon  ? I hope  so.  He  is  very  simple  ; is  he 
not  a little  dangerous?” 

44  He  knows  nothing,”  said  Defarge  ; 44  at  least  noth- 
ing more  than  would  easily  elevate  himself  to  a gallows 
of  the  same  height.  I charge  myself  with  him  ; let  him 
remain  with  me  ; I will  take  care  of  him,  and  set  him  on 
his  road.  He  wishes  to  see  the  fine  world — the  King, 
the  Queen,  and  Court : let  him  see  them  on  Sunday.” 

44  What?”  exclaimed  the  hungry  man,  staring.  44  Is 
it  a good  sign,  that  he  wishes  to  see  Royalty  and  Nobil- 
ity ? ” 

“Jacques,”  said  Defarge;  44  judiciously  show  a cat, 
milk,  if  you  wish  her  to  thirst  for  it.  Judiciously  show 
a dog  his  natural  prey,  if  you  wish  him  to  bring  it  down 
one  day.” 

Nothing  more  was  said,  and  the  mender  of  roads,  being 
found  already  dozing  on  the  topmost  stair,  was  advised 
to  lay  himself  down  on  the  pallet-bed  and  take  some  rest. 
He  needed  no  persuasion,  and  was  soon  asleep. 

Worse  quarters  than  Defarge’s  wine-shop,  could  easily 
have  been  found  in  Paris  for  a provincial  slave  of  that 
degree.  Saving  for  a mysterious  dread  of  madame  by 
- which  he  was  constantly  haunted,  his  life  was  very  new 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


153 


and  agreeable.  But,  madame  sat  all  day  at  her  counter, 
so  expressly  unconscious  of  him  and  so  particularly  de- 
termined  not  to  perceive  that  his  being  there  had  any 
connexion  with  anything  below  the  surface,  that  he 
shook  in  his  wooden  shoes  whenever  his  eye  lighted  on 
ner.  For,  he  contended  with  himself  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  foresee  what  that  lady  might  pretend  next : and 
he  felt  assured  that  if  she  should  take  it  into  her 
brightly  ornamented  head  to  pretend  that  she  had  seen 
him  do  a murder  and  afterwards  flay  the  victim,  she 
would  infallibly  go  through  with  it  until  the  play  wa3 
played  out. 

Therefore,  when  Sunday  came,  the  mender  of  roads 
was  not  enchanted  (though  he  said  he  was)  to  find  that 
madame  was  to  accompany  monsieur  and  himself  to 
Versailles.  It  was  additionally  disconcerting  to  have 
madame  knitting  all  the  way  there,  in  a public  convey- 
ance ; it  was  additionally  disconcerting  yet,  to  have  ma- 
dame in  the  crowd  in  the  afternoon,  still  with  her  knit- 
ting in  her  hands  as  the  crowd  waited  to  see  the  carriage 
of  the  King  and  Queen. 

“ You  work  hard,  madame/’  said  a man  near  her. 

“Yes,”  answered  Madame  Defarge  ; “I  have  a good 
deal  to  do.” 

“ What  do  you  make,  madame  ? ” 

“ Many  things.” 

“For  instance — ” 

“For  instance,”  returned  Madame  Defarge,  compos- 
edly, “ shrouds.” 

The  man  moved  a little  further  away,  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  the  mender  of  roads  fanned  himself  with  his 
blue  cap  : feeling  it  mightily  close  and  oppressive.  If  he 
needed  a King  and  Queen  to  restore  him,  he  was  fortu 
nate  in  having  his  remedy  at  hand  ; for,  soon  the  large- 
faced King  and  the  fair-faced  Queen  came  in  their  golden 
coach,  attended  by  the  shining  Bull’s  Eye  of  their  Court, 
& glittering  multitude  of  laughing  ladies  and  fine  lords  ; 
and  in  jewels  and  silks  and  powder  and  splendour  and 
elegantly  spurning  figures  and  handsomely  disdainful 
faces  of  both  sexes,  the  mender  of  roads  bathed  himself, 
so  much  to  his  temporary  intoxication,  that  he  cried  Long 
live  the  King,  Long  live  the  Queen,  Long  live  everybody 
and  everything  ! as  if  he  had  never  heard  of  ubiquitous 
Jacques  in  his  time.  Then,  there  were  gardens,  court- 
yards, terraces,  fountains,  green  banks,  more  King  and 
Queen,  more  Bull’s  Eye,  more  lords  and  ladies,  more 
Long  live  they  all  ! until  hq  absolutely  wept  with  senti- 
ment. During  the  whole  of  this  scene,  which  lasted 
some  three  hours,  he  had  plenty  of  shouting  and  weep- 
ing and  sentimental  company,  and  throughout  Defarge 
held  him  by  the  collar,  as  if  to  restrain  him  from  Hying 


154 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


at  tlie  objects  of  his  brief  devotion  and  tearing  them  to 
pieces. 

“ Bravo  ! ” said  Defarge,  clapping  him  on  the  back 
when  it  was  over,  like  a patron  ; “ you  are  a good  boy  ! ” 

The  mender  of  roads  was  now  coming  to  himself,  and 
was  mistrustful  of  having  made  a mistake  in  his  late 
demonstrations  ; but  no. 

“ You  are  the  fellow  we  want/’  said  Defarge  in  his 
ear  ; “ you  make  these  fools  believe  that  it  will  last  for 
ever.  Then,  they  are  the  more  insolent,  and  it  is  the 
nearer  ended.” 

“ Hey ! ” cried  the  mender  of  roads,  reflectively  ; 
“ that’s  true.” 

“ These  fools  know  nothing.  While  they  d'espise  your 
breath,  and  would  stop  it  for  ever  and  ever,  in  you  or 
in  a hundred  like  you  rather  than  in  one  of  their  own 
horses  or  dogs,  they  only  know  what  your  breath  tells 
them.  Let  it  deceive  them,  then,  a little  longer ; it 
cannot  deceive  them  too  much.” 

Madame  Defarge  looked  superciliously  at  the  client, 
and  nodded  in  confirmation. 

“ As  to  you,”  said  she,  “ you  would  shout  and  shed 
tears  for  anything,  if  it  made  a show  and  a noise.  Say  1 
Would  you  not  ?” 

“ Truly,  madame,  I think  so.  For  the  moment.” 

“ If  you  were  shown  a great  heap  of  dolls,  and  were 
set  upon  them  to  pluck  them  to  pieces  and  despoil  them 
for  your  own  advantage,  you  would  pick  out  the  richest 
and  gayest.  Say!  Would  you  not  ? ” 

“ Truly  yes,  madame.” 

“Yes.  And  if  you  were  shown  a flock  of  birds, 
unable  to  fly,  and  were  set  upon  them  to  strip  them  of 
their  feathers  for  your  own  advantage,  you  would  set 
upon  the  birds  of  the  finest  feathers ; would  you 
not?  ” 

“ It  is  true,  madame.” 

“You  have  seen  both  dolls  and  birds  to-day,”  said 
Madame  Defarge,  with  a wave  of  her  hand  towards  the 
place  where  they  had  last  been  apparent;  “now  go 
home  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Still  Knitting. 

Madame  Defarge  and  monsieur  her  husband  returned 
amicably  to  the  bosom  of  Saint  Antoine,  while  a speck 
in  a blue  cap  toiled  through  the  darkness,  and  through 
the  dust,  and  down  the  weary  miles  of  avenue  by  the 
wayside,  slowly  tending  towards  that  point  of  the  com- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


155 


pass  where  the  chateau  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  now 
in  his  grave,  listened  to  the  whispering  trees  Suci 
ample  leisure  had  the  stone  faces,  now,  for  listening  to 
the  trees  and  to  the  fountain,  that  the  few  village  scare- 
crows who.  in  their  quest  for  herbs  to  eat  and  fragments 
of  dead  stick  to  burn,  strayed  within  sight  of  the  great 
stone  court-yard  and  terrace  staircase,  had  it  borne  in 
upon  their  starved  fancy  that  the  expression  of  the  faces 
was  altered.  A rumour  just  lived  in  the  village — had  a 
faint  and  bare  existence  there,  as  its  peopie  had — that 
when  the  knife  struck  home,  the  faces  changed,  from 
faces  of  pride  to  faces  of  anger  and  pain  ; also,  that 
when  that  dangling  figure  was  hauled  up  forty  feet 
above  the  fountain,  they  changed  again,  and  bore  a cruel 
look  of  being  avenged,  which  they  would  henceforth  bear 
for  ever.  In  the  stone  face  over  the  great  window  of 
th  bedchamber  where  the  murder  was  done,  two  fine 
dints  were  pointed  out  in  the  sculptured  nose,  which 
everybody  recognised,  and  which  nobody  had  seen  of 
old  ; and  on  the  scarce  occasions  when  two  or  three 
ragged  peasants  emerged  from  the  crowd  to  take  a hur- 
ried peep  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis  petrified,  a skinny 
finger  would  not  have  pointed  to  it  for  a minute,  before 
they  all  started  away  among  the  moss  and  leaves,  liks 
the  more  fortunate  hares  who  could  find  a living  there. 

Chateau  and  hut,  stone  face  and  dangling  figure,  the 
red  stain  on  the  stone  floor,  and  the  pure  water  in  the 
village  well— thousands  of  acres  of  land — a whole  prov- 
ince of  France — all  France  itself — lay  under  the  night 
sky,  concentrated  into  a faint  hair-breadth  line.  So  does 
a whole  world  with  all  its  greatness  and  littleness,  lie  in 
a twinkling  star.  And  as  mere  human  knowledge  can 
split  a ray  of  light  and  analyse  the  manner  of  its  com- 
position, so,  sublimer  intelligences  may  read  in  the  fee- 
ble shining  of  this  earth  of  ours,  every  thought  and  act, 
every  vice  and  virtue,  of  every  responsible  creature  on 
it. 

The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  came  lumbering 
under  the  starlight,  in  their  public  vehicle,  to  that  gate 
of  Paris  whereunto  their  journey  naturally  tended. 
There  was  the  usual  stoppage  at  the  barrier  guard-house, 
and  the  usual  lanterns  came  glancing  forth  for  the  usual 
examination  and  inquiry.  Monsieur  Defarge  alighted  : 
knowing  one  or  two  of  the  soldiery  there,  and  one  of  the 
police.  The  latter  he  was  intimate  with,  and  affection- 
ately embraced. 

When  Saint  Antoine  had  again  enfolded  the  Defarges 
in  his  dusky  wungs,  and  they  having  finally  alighted 
near  the  Saint's  boundaries,  were  picking  their  w^ay  on 
foot  through  the  black  mud  and  offal  of  his  streets, 
Madame  Defarge  spoke  to  her  husband  : 


—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  156„ 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


157 


<*  Say  then,  my  friend  : what  did  Jacques  of  the  polio® 
tell  thee  ? ” 

“Very  little  to-night,  but  all  he  knows.  There  is 
another  spy  commissioned  for  our  quarter.  There  may 
be  many  more,  for  all  that  he  can  say,  but  he  knows  of 
one.” 

“ Eh  well  ! ” said  Madame  Defarge,  raising  her  eye- 
brows with  a cool  business  air.  “ It  is  necessary  to  regis- 
ter him.  How  do  they  call  that  man  ? ” 

“ He  is  English.” 

“ So  much  the  better.  His  name?” 

“Barsad,”  said  Defarge,  making  it  French  by  pro- 
nunciation. But,  he  had  been  so  careful  to  get  it 
accurately,  that  he  then  spelt  it  with  perfect  correctness. 

“Barsad,”  repeated  Madame.  “Good.  Christian 
smme  ? ” 

“ John.” 

“John  Barsad,”  repeated  madame,  after  murmuring 
It  once  to  herself.  “Good.  His  appearance;  is  it 
known  ? ” 

“ Age,  about  forty  years  ; height,  about  five  feet  nine  ; 
black  hair  ; complexion  dark  ; generally,  rather  hand- 
some visage  ; eyes  dark,  face  thin,  long,  and  sallow  ; 
nose  aquiline,  but  not  straight,  having  a peculiar  incli- 
nation towards  the  left  cheek  ; expression,  therefore, 
sinister.” 

“ Eh  my  faith.  It  is  a portrait  !”  said  madame,  laugh- 
ing. “ He  shall  be  registered  to-morrow.” 

They  turned  into  the  wine-shop,  which  was  closed  (for 
it  was  midnight),  and  where  Madame  Defarge  immedi- 
ately took  her  post  at  the  desk,  counted  the  small  moneys 
that  had  been  taken  during  her  absence,  examined  the 
stock,  went  through  the  entries  in  the  book,  made  other 
entries  of  her  own,  checked  the  serving  man  in  every 
possible  way,  and  finally  dismissed  him  to  bed.  Then 
she  turned  out  the  contents  of  the  bowl  of  money  for  the 
second  time,  and  began  knotting  them  up  in  her  hand- 
kerchief, in  a chain  of  separate  knots,  for  safe  keeping 
through  the  night.  All  this  while,  Defarge,  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  walked  up  and  down,  complacently 
admiring,  but  never  interfering  ; in  which  condition  in- 
deed, as  to  the  business  and  his  domestic  affairs,  he 
walked  up  and  down  through  life. 

The  night  was  hot,  and  the  shop,  close-shut  and  sur- 
rounded by  so  foul  a neighbourhood,  was  ill-smelling. 
Monsieur  Defarge’s  olfactory  sense  was  by  no  means 
delicate,  but  the  stock  of  wine  smelt  much  stronger  than 
it  ever  tasted,  and  so  did  the  stock  of  rum  and  brandy  and 
aniseed.  He  whiffed  the  compound  of  scents  away,  as  he 
put  down  his  smoked-out  pipe. 

“ You  are  fatigued,”  said  madame,  raising  her  glance 


158 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


as  slie  knotted  the  money.  “ There  are  only  the  usual 
odours.” 

“ I am  a little  tired,”  her  husband  acknowledged. 

“ You  are  a little  depressed,  too,”  said  madame,  whose 
quick  eyes  had  never  been  so  intent  on  the  accounts,  but 
they  had  had  a ray  or  two  for  him.  “ Oh,  the  men,  the 

men  !” 

“ But  my  clear,”  began  Defarge. 

“But  my  dear  !”  repeated  madame,  nodding  firmly: 
“ but  my  dear  ! You  are  faint  of  heart  to-night,  my 
dear  ! ” 

“Well,  then,”  said  Defarge,  as  if  a thought  were 
wrung  out  of  his  breast,  “ it  is  a long  time.” 

“ It  is  a long  time,”  repeated  his  wife  ; “ and  when  is 
it  not  a long  time?  Vengeance  and  retribution  require 
a long  time  ; it  is  the  rule.” 

4 ‘ It  does  not  take  a long  time  to  strike  a man  with 
Lightning,”  said  Defarge. 

“ How  long,”  demanded  the  madame,  composedly, 
ct  does  it  take  to  make  and  store  the  lightning  ? Tell 
me?” 

Defarge  raised  his  head  thoughtfully,  as  if  there  were 
something  in  that,  too. 

“ It  does  not  take  a long  time,”  said  madame,  “ for  an 
earthquake  to  swallow  a town.  Eh  well ! Tell  me  how 
long  it  takes  to  prepare  the  earthquake  ? ” 

“ A long  time,  I suppose,”  said  Defarge. 

“ But  when  it  is  ready,  it  takes  place,  and  grinds  to 
pieces  everything  before  it.  In  the  mean  time,  it  is  al- 
ways preparing,  though  it  is  not  seen  or  heard.  That  is 
your  consolation.  Keep  it.” 

She  tied  a knot  with  flashing  eyes,  as  if  it  throttled  a 
foe. 

“ I tell  thee,”  said  madame,  extending  her  right  hand, 
for  emphasis,  “ that  although  it  is  a long  time  on  the 
road,  it  is  on  the  road  and  coming.  I tell  thee  it  never 
retreats,  and  never  stops.  I tell  thee  it  is  always 
advancing.  Look  around  and  consider  the  lives  of  all 
the  world  that  we  know,  consider  the  faces  of  all  the 
world  that  we  know,  consider  the  rage  and  discontent  to 
which  the  Jacquerie  addresses  itself  with  more  and  more 
of  certainty  every  hour.  Can  such  things  last  ? Bah  ! 
I mock  you.” 

“ My  brave  wife,”  returned  Defarge,  standing  before 
her  with  his  head  a little  bent,  and  his  hands  clasped  at 
his  back,  like  a docile  and  attentive  pupil  before  his 
catechist,  “ I do  not  question  all  this.  But  it  has  lasted 
along  time,  andfit  fs  possible — you  know  well,  my  wife> 
it  is  possible — that  it  may  not  come,  during  our  lives.” 

“Eh  well!  How  then ?”  demanded  madame,  tying 
another  knot,  as  if  there  were  another  enemy  strangled. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


159 


“ Well  !”  said  Defarge  with  a half  complaining  and 
half  apologetic  shrug.  “ We  shall  not  see  the  triumph. ” 

“ We  shall  have  helped  it,”  returned  madame,  with 
her  extended  hand  in  strong  action.  “ Nothing  that  we 
do,  is  done  in  vain.  I believe,  with  all  my  soul,  that  we 
shall  see  the  triumph.  But  even  if  not,  even  if  I knew 
certainly  not,  show'  me  the  neck  of  an  aristocrat  and 
tyrant,  and  still  I would — ” 

There  madame  with  her  teeth  set,  tied  a very  terrible 
knot  indeed. 

“Hold!”  cried  Defarge,  reddening  a little  as  if  be 
felt  charged  with  cow'ardice  ; “ I too,  my  dear,  will  stop  at 
nothing.” 

“ Yes  ! But  it  is  your  weakness  that  you  sometimes 
need  to  see  your  victim  and  your  opportunity,  to  sustain 
you.  Sustain  yourself  without  that.  When  the  time 
comes,  let  loose  a tiger  and  a devil  ; but  wait  for  the 
time  with  the  tiger  and  the  devil  chained — not  shown — - 
yet  always  ready.” 

Madame  enforced  the  conclusion  of  this  piece  of  advice 
by  striking  her  little  counter  wdth  her  chain  of  money 
as  if  she  knocked  its  brains  out,  and  then  gathering 
the  heavy  handkerchief  under  her  arm  in  a serene 
manner,  and  observing  that  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Next  noontide  saw  the  admirable  woman  in  her  usual 
place  in  the  wine -shop,  knitting  aw'ay  assiduously.  A 
rose  lay  beside  her,  and  if  she  now  and  then  glanced  at 
the  flower,  it  was  with  no  infraction  of  her  usual  pre- 
occupied air.  There  were  a few  customers,  drinking  or 
not  drinking,  standing  or  seated,  sprinkled  about.  The 
day  was  very  hot,  and  heaps  of  flies,  who  were  extending 
their  inquisitive  and  adventurous  perquisitions  into  all 
the  glutinous  little  glasses  near  madame,  fell  dead  at  the 
bottom.  Their  decease  made  no  impression  on  the  other 
flies  out  promenading,  who  looked  at  them  in  the  coolest 
manner  (as  if  they  themselves  were  elephants,  or  some- 
thing as  far  removed),  until  they  met  the  same  fate 
Curious  to  consider  how  heedless  flies  are  ! — perhaps 
they  thought  as  much  at  Court  that  sunny  summer 
day. 

A figure  entering  at  the  door  threw'  a shadow  on 
Madame  Defarge  which  she  felt  to  be  a new  one.  She 
laid  down  her  knitting,  and  began  to  pin  her  rose  in  her 
head-dress,  before  she  looked  at  the  figure. 

It  was  curious.  The  moment  Madame  Defarge  took 
up  the  rose,  the  customers  ceased  talking,  and  began 
gradually  to  drop  out  of  the  wine-shop. 

“Good  day,  madame,”  said  the  new  comer. 

“ Good  day,  monsieur.” 

She  said  it  aloud,  but  added  to  herself,  as  she  resumed 
her  knitting  : “ Hah  1 Good  day,  age  about  forty,  height 


160 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


about  live  feet  nine,  black  bair,  generally  rather  hand- 
some visage,  complexion  dark,  eyes  dark,  thin  long  and 
sallow  face,  aquiline  nose  but  not  straight,  having  a 
peculiar  inclination  towards  the  left  cheek  which  imparts 
a sinister  expression  ! Good  day,  one  and  all  ! ” 

“ Have  the  goodness  to  give  me  a little  glass  of  old 
cognac,  and  a mouthful  of  cool  fresh  water,  madame  ! ” 

Madame  complied  with  a polite  air. 

“Marvellous  cognac  this,  madame  !” 

It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  been  so  complimented, 
and  Madame  Defarge  knew  enough  of  its  antecedents  to 
know  better.  She  said,  however,  that  the  cognac  was 
flattered,  and  took  up  her  knitting.  The  visitor  watched 
her  fingers  for  a few  moments,  and  took  the  opportunity 
of  observing  the  place  in  general. 

“ You  knit  with  great  skill,  madame.  ” 

“ I am  accustomed  to  it.” 

“ A pretty  pattern  too  ! ” 

“ You  think  so?”  said  madame,  looking  at  him  with 
a smile. 

“ Decidedly.  May  one  ask  what  it  is  for?  ” 

“Pastime,”  said  madame,  looking  at  him  with  & 
smile,  while  her  fingers  moved  nimbly. 

“Not  for  use?” 

“ That  depends.  I may  find  a use  for  it,  one  day.  If 
I do — well,”  said  madame,  drawing  a breath  and  nodding 
her  head  with  a stern  kind  of  coquetry,  “ IT1  use  it  1 ” 

It  was  remarkable  ; but,  the  taste  of  Saint  Antoine 
seemed  to  be  decidedly  opposed  to  a rose  on  the  head- 
dress of  Madame  Defarge.  Two  men  had  entered 
separately,  and  had  been  about  to  order  drink,  when, 
catching  sight  of  that  novelty,  they  faltered,  made  a 
pretence  of  looking  about  as  if  for  some  friend  who  was 
not  there,  and  went  away.  Nor,  of  those  who  had  been 
there  when  this  visitor  entered,  was  there  one  left. 
'They  had  all  dropped  off.  The  spy  had  kept  his  eyes 
open,  but  had  been  able  to  detect  no  sign.  They  had 
lounged  away  in  a poverty-stricken,  purposeless,  ac- 
cidental manner,  quite  natural  and  unimpeachable. 

“John,”  thought  madame,  checking  off  her  work  as 
her  fingers  knitted,  and  her  eyes  looked  at  the  stranger. 
“ stay  long  enough,  and  I shall  knit  ‘ Barsad  ’ before  you 
go-” 

“ You  have  a husband,  madame  ?” 

“ I have.” 

“ Children  ? ” 

“No  children.” 

“ Business  seems  bad?” 

“ Business  is  very  bad  ; the  people  are  so  poor.” 

‘ Ah  the  unfortunate,  miserable  people  ! So  oppressed 
too— as  you  say.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


161 


<e  As  yon  say,”  madame  retorted,  correcting  him,  and 
deftly  knitting  an  extra  something  into  his  name  that 
boded  him  no  good. 

“ Pardon  me  ; certainly  it  was  I who  said  so,  but  you 
naturally  think  so.  Of  course.” 

“ I think?”  returned  madame,  in  a high  voice.  “I 
and  my  husband  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  this  wine- 
shop open,  without  thinking.  All  we  think,  here,  is, 
how  to  live*  That  is  the  subject  we  think  of,  and  it 
gives  us,  from  morning  to-night,  enough  to  think  about, 
without  embarrassing  our  heads  concerning  others.  1 
think  for  others?  No,  no.” 

The  spy,  who  was  there  to  pick  up  any  crumbs  he 
could  find  or  make,  did  not  allow  his  baffled  state  to  ex- 
press itself  in  his  sinister  face  ; but,  stood  with  an  air 
of  gossiping  gallantry,  leaning  his  elbow  on  Madame  De- 
farge’s  little  counter,  and  occasionally  sipping  his  cognac. 

“ A bad  business  this,  madame,  of  Gaspard’s  execu- 
tion. Ah  1 the  poor  Gaspard  ! ” With  a sigh  of  great 
compassion. 

“My  faith  !”  returned  madame,  coolly  and  lightly, 
“if  people  use  knives  for  such  purposes,  they  have  to 
pay  for  it.  He  knew  beforehand  what  the  price  of  his 
luxury  was  ; he  has  paid  the  price.” 

“ I believe,”  said  the  spy,  dropping  his  soft  voice  to 
a tone  that  invited  confidence,  and  expressing  an  injured 
revolutionary  susceptibility  in  every  muscle  of  his  wicked 
face  ; “I  believe  there  is  much  compassion  and  anger  in 
this  neighbourhood,  touching  the  poor  fellow  ? Between 
ourselves.” 

“ Is  there?”  asked  madame,  vacantly. 

“ Is  there  not  ? ” 

“ — Here  is  my  husband  ! ” said  Madame  Defarge. 

As  the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  entered  at  the  door, 
the  spy  saluted  him  by  touching  his  hat,  and  saying, 
with  an  engaging  smile,  “Good  day,  Jacques  ! ” De- 
farge-Atopped  short,  and  stared  at  him. 

“Good  day,  Jacques  ! ” the  spy  repeated;  with  not 
quite  so  much  confidence,  or  quite  so  easy  a smile  under 
the  stare. 

‘ ‘ You  deceive  yourself,  monsieur,  ” returned  the  keeper 
of  the  wine-shop.  “You  mistake  me  for  another.  That 
is  not  my  name.  I am  Ernest  Defarge.  ” 

“ It  is  all  the  same,”  said  the  spy,  airily,  but  discom- 
fited too  : “ good  day  ! ” 

“ Good  day  ! ” answered  Defarge,  dryly. 

“ I was  saying  to  madame,  with  whom  I had  the 
pleasure  of  chatting  when  you  entered,  that  they  tell 
me  there  is — and  no  wonder  ! — much  sympathy  and  an- 
ger in  Saint  Antoine,  touching  the  unhappy  fate  of  poor 
Gaspard.” 


162 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ No  one  lias  told  me  so,”  said  Defarge,  shaking  Ms 
head.  “ I know  nothing  of  it.” 

Having  said  it,  he  passed  behind  the  little  counter, 
and  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  wife’s  chair, 
looking  over  that  barrier  at  the  person  to  whom  they 
were  both  opposed,  and  whom  either  of  them  would 
have  shot  with  the  greatest  satisfaction. 

The  spy,  well'  used  to  his  business,  did  notr  change  his 
unconscious  attitude,  but  drained  his  little  glass  of 
cognac,  took  a sip  of  fresh  water,  and  asked  for  another 
glass  of  cognac.  Madame  Defarge  poured  it  out  for  him, 
took  to  her  knitting  again,  and  hummed  a little  song 
over  it. 

“You  seem  to  know  this  quarter  well  ; that  is  to  say, 
better  than  I do?”  observed  Defarge. 

“ Not  at  all,  but  I hope  to  know  it  better.  I am  so 
profoundly  interested  in  its  miserable  inhabitants.” 

“ Hah  !”  muttered  Defarge. 

“The  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  Monsieur  De- 
farge, recals  to  me,”  pursued  the  spy,  “ that  I have  the 
honour  of  cherishing  some  interesting  associations  with 
your  name.” 

“ Indeed?”  said  Defarge,  with  much  indifference. 

“ Yes  indeed.  When  Doctor  Manette  was  released, 
you  his  old  domestic  had  the  charge  of  him,  I know. 
He  was  delivered  to  you.  You  see  I am  informed  of  the 
circumstances  ? ” 

“ Such  is  the  fact,  certainly,”  said  Defarge.  He  had 
had  it  conveyed  to  him,  in  an  accidental  touch  of  his 
wife’s  elbow  as  she  knitted  and  warbled,  that  he  would 
do.  best  to  answer,  but  always  with  brevity. 

“It  was  to  you,”  said  the  spy,  “that  his  daughter 
came  ; and  it  was  from  your  care  that  his  daughter  took 
him,  accompanied  by  a neat  brown  monsieur  ; how  is  he 
called  ? — in  a little  wig — Lorry — of  the  bank  of  Tellson 
and  Company — over  to  England.” 

“ Such  is  the  fact,”  repeated  Defarge. 

“ Very  interesting  remembrances  ! ” said  the  spy.  “ I 
have  known  Doctor  Manette  and  his  daughter,  in  Eng- 
land.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Defarge. 

“ You  don't  hear  much  about  them  now,”  said  the 
spy. 

“No,”  said  Defarge. 

“In  effect,”  madame  struck  in,  looking  up  from  her 
work  and  her  little  song,  “we  never  hear  about  them. 
We  received  the  news  of  their  safe  arrival,  and  perhaps 
another  letter  or  perhaps  two  ; but  since  then,  they  have 
gradually  taken  their  road  in  life — we,  ours — and  we 
have  held  no  correspondence.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


163 


‘‘Perfectly  so,  m ad ame/5  replied  the  spy.  “She  is 
going  to  he  married.” 

“Going?”  echoed  madame.  “She  was  pretty  enough 
to  have  been  married  long  ago.  You  English  are  cold, 
it  seems  to  me.  ” 

“ Oh  ! You  know  I am  English  ? ” 

“ I perceive  your  tongue  is,”  returned  madame  „ “ and 
what  the  tongue  is,  I suppose  the  man  is.” 

He  did  not  take  the  identification  as  a compliment , 
but,  he  made  the  best  of  it,  and  turned  it  off  with  a 
laugh.  After  sipping  his  cognac  to  the  end,  he  added  : 

“Yes,  Miss  Manette  is  going  to  be  married.  But  not 
to  an  Englishman  ; to  one  who,  like  herself,  is  French 
by  birth.  And  speaking  of  Gaspard  (ah,  poor  Gaspard  ! 
It  was  cruel,  cruel  !),  it  is  a curious  thing  that  she  is  go- 
ing to  marry  the  nephew  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  for 
whom  Gaspard  was  exalted  to  that  height  of  so  many 
feet ; in  other  words,  the  present  Marquis.  But  he  lives 
Unknown  in  England,  he  is  no  Marquis  there  ; he  is  Mr. 
Charles  Darnay.  D’Aulnais  is  the  name  of  his  mother’s 
family.” 

Madame  Defarge  knitted  steadily,  but  the  intelligence 
had  a palpable  effect  upon  her  husband.  Do  what  he 
would,  behind  the  little  counter,  as  to  the  striking  of  a 
light  and  the  lighting  of  his  pipe,  he  was  troubled,  and 
his  hand  was  not  trustworthy.  The  spy  would  have 
been  no  spy  if  he  had  failed  to  see  it,  or  to  record  it  in 
his  mind. 

Having  made,  at  least,  this  one  hit,  whatever  it  might 
prove  to  be  worth,  and  no  customers  coming  in  to  help 
him  to  any  other,  Mr.  Barsad  paid  for  what  he  had 
drunk,  and  took  his  leave  : taking  occasion  to  say,  in  a 
genteel  manner,  before  he  departed,  that  he  looked  for- 
ward to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Defarge  again.  For  some  minutes  after  he  had  emerged 
into  the  outer  presence  of  Saint  Antoine,  the  husband 
and  wife  remained  exactly  as  he  had  left  them,  lest  he 
should  come  back. 

“ Can  it  be  true,”  said  Defarge,  in  a low  voice*  look- 
ing down  at  Ms  wife  as  he  stood  smoking  with  his  hand 
on  the  back  of  her  chair  : “ what  he  has  said  of  Ma’am  - 
selle  Manette  ?” 

“As  he  has  said  it,”  returned  madame,  lifting  her 
eyebrows  a little,  “ it  is  probably  false.  But  it  maybe 
true.” 

“ If  it  is — ” Defarge  began  ; and  stopped. 

“ If  it  is?  ” repeated  his  wife. 

“ —And  if  it  does  come  while  we  live  to  see  it  triumph 
. — I hope,  for  her  sake.  Destiny  will  keep  her  husband 
out  of  France.” 

“ Her  husband’s  destiny,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  with 


164 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


her  usual  composure,  “ will  take  liim  where  he  is  to  go, 
and  will  lead  him  to  the  end  that  is  to  end  him.  That  is 
all  I know.” 

“ But  it  is  very  strange — now,  at  least  is  it  not  very 
strange” — said  Defarge,  rather  pleading  with  his  wife 
to  induce  her  to  admit  it,  “ that,  after  all  our  sympathy 
for  Monsieur  her  father  and  herself,  her  husband’s  name 
should  be  proscribed  under  your  hand  at  this  moment, 
by  the  side  of  that  infernal  dog’s  who  has  just  left  us?” 

Stranger  things  than  that,  will  happen  when  it  does 
come,”  answered  madame.  “ I have  them  both  here  ®f 
& certainty  ; and  they  are  both  here  for  their  merits  ; 
that  is  enough.” 

She  rolled  up  her  knitting  when  she  had  said  those 
words,  and  presently  took  the  rose  out  of  the  handker- 
chief that  was  wound  about  her  head.  Either  Saint  An- 
toine had  an  instinctive  sense  that  the  objectionable  de- 
coration was  gone,  or  Saint  Antoine  was  on  the  watch 
for  its  disappearance  ; howbeit,  the  Saint  took  courage  to 
lounge  in,  very  shortly  afterwards,  and  the  wine-shop 
recovered  its  habitual  aspect. 

In  the  evening,  at  which  season  of  all  others,  Saint 
Antoine  turned  himself  inside  out,  and  sat  on  door-steps 
and  window-ledges,  and  came  to  the  corners  of  vile 
streets  and  courts,  for  a breath  of  air,  Madame  Defarge 
with  her  wrork  in  her  hand  was  accustomed  to  pass  from 
place  to  place  and  from  group  to  group  : a Missionary— 
there  were  many  like  her — such  as  the  world  will  do 
well  never  to  breed  again.  All  the  women  knitted. 
They  knitted  worthless  things ; but,  the  mechanical 
work  was  a mechanical  substitute  for  eating  and  drink- 
ing ; the  hands  moved  for  the  jaws  and  the  digestive  ap- 
paratus ; if  the  bony  fingers  had  been  still,  the  stomachs 
would  have  been  more  famine-pinched. 

But,  as  the  fingers  went,  the  eyes  went,  and  the 
thoughts.  And  as  Madame  Defarge  moved  on  from 
group  to  group,  all  three  went  quicker  and  fiercer 
among  every  little  knot  of  women  that  she  had  spoken 
with,  and  left  behind 

Her  husband  smoked  at  his  door,  looking  after  her 
with  admiration.  “ A great  woman,”  said  he,  “ a strong 
woman,  a grand  woman,  a frightfully  grand  woman.” 

Darkness  closed  around,  and  then  came  the  ringing  of 
church  bells  and  the  distant  beating  of  the  military 
drums  in  the  Faiaee  Court-Yard,  as  the  women  sat  knit- 
ting, knitting.  Darkness  encompassed  them.  Another 
darkness  was  closing  in  as  surely,  when  the  church  bells, 
then  ringing  pleasantly  in  many  an  airy  steeple  over 
France,  should  be  melted  into  thundering  cannon  ; when 
the  military  drums  should  be  beating  to  drown  a wretched 
voice,  that  night  all  potent  as  the  voice  of  Power  and 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


165 


’Plenty,  Freedom  and  Life.  So  much  was  closing  in 
<about  the  women  who  sat  knitting,  knitting,  that  they 
jQieir  very  selves  were  closing  in  around  a structure  yet 
inbuilt,  where  they  were  to  sit  knitting,  knitting,  count- 
ieig  dropping  heads. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

One  Night. 

Never  did  the  sun  go  down  with  a brighter  glory  on 
the  quiet  corner  in  Soho,  than  one  memorable  evening 
when  the  Doctor  and  his  daughter  sat  under  the  plane- 
tree  together.  Never  did  the  moon  rise  with  a milder 
radiance  over  great  London,  than  on  that  night  when 
it  found  them  still  seated  under  the  tree,  and  shone  upon 
their  faces  through  its  leaves. 

Lucie  was  to  be  married  to-morrow.  She  had  reserved 
this  last  evening  for  her  father,  and  they  sat  alone  undef 
the  plane-tree. 

“ You  are  happy,  my  dear  father  ? ” 

“ Quite,  my  child.” 

They  had  said  little,  though  they  had  been  there  a long 
time.  When  it  was  yet  light  enough  to  vrork  and  read, 
she  had  neither  engaged  herself  in  her  usual  work,  nor 
had  she  read  to  him.  She  had  employed  herself  in  both 
ways,  at  his  side,  under  the  tree,  many  and  many  a 
time  ; but,  this  time  was  not  quite  like  any  other,  and 
nothing  could  make  it  so. 

“ And,  I am  very  happy  to-night,  dear  father.  1 am 
deeply  happy  in  the  love  that  Heaven  has  so  blessed  my 
love  for  Charles,  and  Charles's  love  for  me.  But,  if  my  life 
were  not  to  be  still  consecrated  to  you,  or  if  my  marriage 
were  so  arranged  as  that  it  would  part  us,  even  by  the 
length  of  a few  of  these  streets,  I should  be  more  un- 
happy and  self -reproachful  now,  than  I can  tell  you. 
Even  as  it  is — ” 

Even  as  it  was,  she  could  not  command  her  voice. 

In  the  sad  moonlight,  she  clasped  him  by  the  neck, 
and  laid  her  face  upon  his  breast.  In  the  moonlight 
which  is  always  sad,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  itself  is — as 
the  light  called  human  life  is — at  its  coming  and  its  go- 
ing. 

“ Dearest  dear  ! Can  you  tell  me,  this  last  time,  that 
you  feel  quite,  quite  sure,  no  new  affections  of  mine,  and 
no  new  duties  of  mine,  will  ever  interpose  between  us  ? 
/know  it  well,  but  do  you  know  it  ? In  your  own  heart, 
uo  you  feel  quite  certain  ? ” 

Her  father  answered,  with  a cheerful  firmness  of  con- 
viction he  could  scarcely  have  assumed,  “Quite  sure. 


166 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


my  darling  ! More  than  that,”  he  added,  as  he  tenderly 
kissed  her  : “ my  future  is  far  brighter,  Lucie,  seen 
through  your  marriage,  than  it  could  have  been — nay, 
than  it  ever  was — without  it.” 

“ If  I could  hope  that , my  father 

“Believe  it,  love!  Indeed  it  is  so.  Consider  how 
natural  and  how  plain  it  is,  my  dear,  that  it  should  be 
so.  You,  devoted  and  young,  cannot  fully  appreciate 
the  anxiety  I have  felt  that  your  life  should  not  be 
wasted — ” 

She  moved  her  hand  towards  his  lips,  but  he  took  it 
in  his,  and  repeated  the  word. 

“ — wasted,  my  child — should  not  be  wasted,  struck 
aside  from  the  natural  order  of  things — for  my  sake. 
Your  unselfishness  cannot  entirely  comprehend  how 
much  my  mind  has  gone  on  this  ; but,  only  ask  yourself, 
how  could  my  happiness  be  perfect,  while  yours  was  in- 
complete  ? ” 

“ If  I had  never  seen  Charles,  my  father,  I should  havs 
been  quite  happy  with  you.” 

He  smiled  at  her  unconscious  admission  that  she 
would  have  been  unhappy  without  Charles,  having  seen 
him  ; and  replied  : 

“ My  child,  you  did  see  him,  and  it  is  Charles.  If  it 
had  not  been  Charles,  it  would  have  been  another.  Or, 
if  it  had  been  no  other,  I should  have  been  the  cause, 
and  then  the  dark  part  of  my  life  would  have  cast  its 
shadow  beyond  myself,  and  would  have  fallen  on  you.” 

It  was  the  first  time,  except  at  the  trial,  of  her  ever 
hearing  him  refer  to  the  period  of  his  sufferings.  It 
gave  her  a strange  and  new  sensation  while  his  words 
were  in  her  ears ; and  she  remembered  it  long  after- 
wards. 

“ See  !”  said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais,  raising  his  hand 
towards  the  moon.  “I  have  looked  at  her  from  my 
prison-window,  when  I could  not  bear  her  light.  I 
have  looked  at  her  when  it  has  been  such  torture  to  me 
to  think  of  her  shining  upon  what  I had  lost,  that  1 have 
beaten  my  head  against  my  prison  walls.  I have  looked 
at  her  in  a state  so  dulled  and  lethargic,  that  I have 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  number  of  horizontal  lines  X 
could  draw  across  her  at  the  full,  and  the  number  of 
perpendicular  lines  with  which  I could  intersect  them.” 
He  added  in  his  inward  and  pondering  manner,  as  he 
looked  at  the  moon,  “ It  was  twenty  either  way,  I 
remember,  and  the  twentieth  was  difficult  to  squeeze 
in.” 

The  strange  thrill  with  which  she  heard  him  go  back 
to  that  time,  deepened  as  he  dwelt  upon  it  : but,  there 
was  nothing  to  shock  her  in  the  manner  of  his  reference. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  ClflES. 


167 


H©  only  seemed  to  contrast  his  present  cheerfulness  and 
felicity  with  the  dire  endurance  that  was  over. 

“ I have  looked  at  her,  speculating  thousands  of  times 
upon  the  unborn  child  from  whom  I had  been  rent. 
Whether  it  was  alive.  Whether  it  had  been  born  alive, 
or  the  poor  mother's  shock  had  killed  it.  Whether  it 
was  a son  who  would  some  day  avenge  his  father. 
(There  was  a time  in  my  imprisonment,  when  my  desire 
for  vengeance  was  unbearable.)  Whether  it  was  a son 
who  would  never  know  his  father’s  story  ; who  might 
even  live  to  weigh  the  possibility  of  his  father’s  having 
disappeared  of  liis  own  will  and  act.  Whether  it  was  a 
daughter,  who  would  grow  to  be  a woman/' 

She  drew  closer  to  him,  and  kissed  his  cheek  and  his 
hand. 

“I  have  pictured  my  daughter,  to  myself,  as  perfectly 
forgetful  of  me — rather,  altogether  ignorant  of  me,  and 
unconscious  of  me.  I have  cast  up  the  years  of  her  age, 
year  after  year.  I have  seen  her  married  to  a man  who 
knew  nothing  of  my  fate.  I have  altogether  perished 
from  the  remembrance  of  the  living,  and  in  the  next 
generation  my  place  was  a blank.” 

“ My  father  ! Even  to  hear  that  you  had  such  thoughts 
of  a daughter  who  never  existed,  strikes  to  my  heart  as 
If  I had  been  that  child.” 

“You,  Lucie?  It  is  out  of  the  consolation  and  res- 
toration you  have  brought  to  me,  that  these  remem- 
brances arise,  and  pass  between  us  and  the  moon  on  this 
xast  night. — What  did  I say,  just  now?” 

“ She  knew  nothing  of  you.  She  cared  nothing  for 
you.” 

“ So  ! But  on  other  moonlight  nights,  when  the  sad^ 
ness  and  the  silence  have  touched  me  in  a different  way 
— have  affected  me  with  something  as  like  a sorrowful 
sense  of  peace,  as  any  emotion  that  had  pain  for  its 
foundations  could — I have  imagined  her  as  coming  to  me 
in  my  cell,  and  leading  me  out  into  the  freedom  beyond 
the  fortress.  I have  seen  her  image  in  the  moonlight, 
often,  as  I now  see  you  ; except  that  I never  held  her  in 
my  arms  ; it  stood  between  the  little  grated  window  and 
the  door.  But,  you  understand  that  that  was  not  the 
child  I am  speaking  of  ? ” 

“ The  figure  was  not ; the — the — image  ; the  fancy  ?* 

“No.  That  was  another  thing.  It  stood  before  my 
disturbed  sense  of  sight,  but  it  never  moved.  The 
phantom  that  my  mind  pursued,  was  another  and  more 
real  child.  Of  her  outward  appearance  I know  no  more 
than  that  she  was  like  her  mother.  The  other  had  that 
likeness  too — as  you  have — but  was  not  the  same.  Can 
you  follow  me,  Lucie  ? Hardly,  I think  ? I doubt  you 


168 


WORKS.  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


must  have  been  a solitary  prisoner  to  understand  these 
perplexed  distinctions. ” 

His  collected  and  calm  manner  could  not  p&event  her 
blood  from  running  cold,  as  he  thus  tried  to  anatomise 
his  old  condition. 

“In  that  more  peaceful  state,  I have  imagined  her,  in 
the  moonlight,  coming  to  me  and  taking  me  out  to  show 
me  that  the  home  of  her  married  life  was  full  of  her  lov- 
ing remembrance  of  her  lost  father.  My  picture  was  in 
her  room,  and  I was  in  her  prayers.  Her  life  was  active, 
cheerful,  useful  ; but  my  poor  history  pervaded  it  all,” 

“ I was  that  child,  my  father.  I was  not  half  so  good 
but  in  my  love  that  was  I.” 

“ And  she  showed  me  her  children,’ ’ said  the  Doctor 
of  Beauvais,  “Snd  they  had  heard  of  me,  and  had  been 
taught  to  pity  me.  When  they  passed  a prison  of  the 
State,  they  kept  far  from  its  frowning  walls,  and  looked 
up  at  its  bars,  and  spoke  in  whispers.  She  could  never 
deliver  me  ; I imagined  that  she  always  brought  me  back 
after  showing  me  such  things.  But  then,  blessed  with 
the  relief  of  tears,  I fell  upon  my  knees,  and  blessed  her.  ” 

“ I am  that  child,  I hope,  my  father.  O my  dear,  my 
dear,  will  you  bless  me  as  fervently  to-morrow  ? ” 

“ Lucie,  I recal  these  old  troubles  in  the  reason  that  I 
have  to-night  for  loving  you  better  than  words  can  tell, 
and  thanking  God  for  my  great  happiness.  My  thoughts, 
when  they  were  wildest,  never  rose  near  the  happiness 
that  I have  known  with  you,  and  that  we  have  before 
us.” 

He  embraced  her,  solemnly  commended  her  to  Heaven, 
and  humbly  thanked  Heaven  for  having  bestowed  her 
on  him.  By-and-by,  they  went  into  the  house. 

There  was  no  one  bidden  to  the  marriage  but  Mr.  . 
Lorry ; there  was  even  to  be  no  bridesmaid  but  the 
gaunt  Miss  Pross.  The  marriage  was  to  make  no  change 
in  their  place  of  residence  ; they  had  been  able  to 
extend  it,  by  taking  to  themselves  the  upper  rooms 
formerly  belonging  to  the  apocryphal  invisible  lodger 
and  they  desired  nothing  more. 

Doctor  Manette  was  very  cheerful  at  the  little  supper. 
They  were  only  three  at  table,  and  Miss  Pross  made  the 
third.  He  regretted  that  Charles  was  not  there  , was 
more  than  half  disposed  to  object  to  the  loving  little 
plot  that  kept  him  away  . and  drank  to  him  affection- 
ately. 

So,  the  time  came  for  him  to  bid  Lucie  good  night,  and 
they  separated.  But  in  the  stillness  of  the  third  hour  of 
the  morning,  Lucie  came  down-stairs  again,  and  stole 
into  his  room  : not  free  from  unshaped  fears,  before 
hand. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


109 


All  things,  however,  were  in  their  places ; all  was 
quiet ; and  he  lay  asleep,  his  white  hair  picturesque  on 
the  untroubled  pillow,  and  his  hands  lying  quiet  on  the 
coverlet.  She  put  her  needless  candle  in  the  shadow  at 
a distance,  crept  up  to  his  bed,  and  put  her  lips  to  liis  ; 
then,  leaned  over  him  and  looked  at  him. 

Into  his  handsome  face,  the  bitter  waters  of  captivity 
had  worn  ; but,  he  covered  up  their  tracks  with  a deter- 
mination so  strong,  that  he  held  the  mastery  of  them, 
even  in  his  sleep.  A more  remarkable  face  in  its  quiet, 
resolute,  and  guarded  struggle  with  an  unseen  assailant, 
was  not  to  be  beheld  in  all  the  wide  dominions  of  sleep, 
that  night. 

She  timidly  laid  her  hand  on  his  dear  breast,  and  put 
up  a prayer  that  she  might  ever  be  as  true  to  him  as 
her  love  aspired  to  be,  and  as  his  sorrows  deserved. 
Then,  she  withdrew  her  hand,  and  kissed  his  lips  once 
more,  and  went  away.  So,  the  sunrise  came,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  leaves  of  the  plane-tree  moved  upon  his 
face,  as  softly  as  her  lips  had  moved  in  praying  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Nine  Days. 

The  marriage  day  was  shining  brightly,  and  they 
were  ready  outside  the  closed  door  of  the  Doctor’s  room, 
where  he  was  speaking  with  Charles  Darnay.  They 
were  ready  to  go  to  church  ; the  beautiful  bride,  Mr. 
Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross — to  whom  the  event,  through  a 
gradual  process  of  reconcilement  to  the  inevitable,  would 
have  been  one  of  absolute  bliss,  but  for  the  yet  lingering 
consideration  that  her  brother  Solomon  should  have  been 
the  bridegroom. 

“ And  so,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  could  not  sufficiently 
admire  the  bride,  and  who  had  been  moving  round  her 
to  take  in  every  point  of  her  quiet,  pretty  dress  ; “and 
so  it  was  for  this,  my  sweet  Lucie,  that  I brought  you 
across  the  Channel,  such  a baby  ! Lord  bless  me  ! How 
little  I thought  what  I was  doing.  How  lightly  I valued 
the  obligation  I was  conferring  on  my  friend  Mr. 
Charles!” 

“ You  didn’t  mean  it,”  remarked  the  matter-of-fact 
Miss  Pross,  “ and  therefore  how  could  you  know  it  ? 
Nonsense  ! ” 

“ Really  ? Well  ; but  don’t  pry/’  said  the  gentle  Mr. 

Lorry. 

“I  am  not  crying,”  said  Miss  Pross  ; “ you  are.” 

“I,  my  Pross?”  (By  this  time,  Mr.  Lorry  dared  to 
be  pleasant  with  her,  on  occasion.) 

1 IT  VOL.  11 


170 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ To a were  just  now  ; I saw  you  do  it,  and  I don't 
wonder  at  it.  Such  a present  of  plate  as  you  have  made 
'em,  is  enough  to  bring  tears  into  anybody’s  eyes.  There's 
not  a fork  or  a spoon  in  the  collection,’’  said  Miss  Pross, 
“ that  I didn’t  cry  over,  last  night  after  the  box  came, 
till  I couldn’t  see  it.” 

“I  am  highly  gratified,”  said  Mf.  Lorry,  “ though, 
upon  my  honour,  I had  no  intention  of  rendering  those 
trifling  articles  of  remembrance,  invisible  to  any  one. 
Dear  me  ! This  is  an  occasion  that  makes  a man  specu- 
late on  all  he  has  lost.  Dear,  dear,  dear  ! To  think  that 
there  might  have  been  a Mrs.  Lorry,  any  time  these  fifty 
years  almost  ! ” 

“ Not  at  all ! ” From  Miss  Pross. 

“ You  think  there  never  might  have  been  a Mrs. 
Lorry  ? ” asked  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

“Pooh  ! ” rejoined  Miss  Pross  ; “ you  were  a bachelor 
in  your  cradle.” 

“Well!”  observed  Mr.  Lorry,  beamingly  adjusting 
his  little  wig,  “ that  seems  probable,  too.” 

“ And  you  were  cut  out  for  a bachelor,”  pursued  Miss 
Pross,  “ before  you  were  put  in  your  cradle.” 

“Then,  I think,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “that  I was  very 
Unhandsomely  dealt  with,  and  that  I ought  to  have 
had  a voice  in  the  selection  of  my  pattern.  Enough  ! 
Now,  my  dear  Lucie,”  drawing  his  arm  soothingly  round 
her  waist,  “I  hear  them  moving  in  the  next  room,  and 
Misa  Pross  and  I,  as  two  formal  folks  of  business,  are 
anxious  not  to  lose  the  final  opportunity  of  saying  some- 
thing to  you  that  you  wish  to  hear.  You  leave  your 
good  father,  my  dear,  in  hands  as  earnest  and  as  loving 
as  your  own  ; he  shall  be  taken  every  conceivable  care 
of  ; during  the  next  fortnight,  while  you  are  in  War- 
wickshire and  thereabouts,  even  Tellson’s  shall  go  to  the 
wall  (comparatively  speaking)  before  him.  And  when, 
at  the  fortnight’s  end,  he  comes  to  join  you  and  your 
beloved  husband,  on  your  other  fortnight’s  trip  in  Wales, 
you  shall  say  that  we  have  sent  him  to  you  in  the  best 
health  and  in  the  happiest  frame.  Now,  I hear  Some- 
body’s step  coming  to  the  door.  Let  me  kiss  my  dear 

firl  with  an  old-fashioned  bachelor  blessing,  before 
omebody  comes  to  claim  his  own. 

For  a moment,  he  held  the  fair  face  from  him  to  look 
at  the  well-remembered  expression  on  the  forehead,  and 
then  laid  the  bright  golden  hair  against  his  little  brown 
wig,  with  a genuine  tenderness  and  delicacy,  which,  if 
such  things  be  old-fashioned,  were  as  old  as  Adam. 

The  door  of  the  Doctor’s  room  opened,  and  he  came 
out  with  Charles  Darnay.  He  was  so  deadly  pale— which 
had  not  been  the  case  when  they  went  in  together — that 
no  vestige  of  colour  was  to  be  seen  in  his  face.  But,  in 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


171 


die  composure  of  his  maimer  he  was  unaltered,  except 
that  to  the  shrewd  glance  of  Mr.  Lorry  it  disclosed  some 
shadowy  indication  that  the  old  air  of  avoidance  and 
dread  had  lately  passed  over  him,  like  a cold  wind. 

He  gave  his  arm  to  his  daughter,  and  took  her  down 
stairs  to  the  chariot  which  Mr.  Lorry  had  hired  in  honour 
of  the  day.  The  rest  followed  in  another  carriage,  and 
soon,  in  a neighbouring  church  where  no  strange  eyes 
looked  on,  Charles  Darnay  and  Lucie  Manette  were  hap- 
pily married. 

Besides  the  glancing  tears  that  shone  among  the  smiles 
of  the  little  group  when  it  was  done,  some  diamonds, 
very  bright  and  sparkling,  glanced  on  the  bride's  hand, 
which  were  newly  released  from  the  dark  obscurity  of 
one  of  Mr.  Lorry's  pockets.  They  returned  home  to 
breakfast,  and  all  went  well,  and  in  due  course  the 
golden  hair  that  had  mingled  with  the  poor  shoemaker's 
white  locks  in  the  Paris  garret,  were  mingled  with  them 
again  in  the  morning  sunlight,  on  the  threshold  of  the 
door  at  parting. 

It  was  a hard  parting,  though  it  was  not  for  long. 
But,  her  father  cheered  her,  and  said  at  last,  gently  dis- 
engaging himself  from  her  enfolding  arms,  “ Take  her, 
Charles  ! She  is  yours  ! ” And  her  agitated  hand  waved 
to  them  from  a chaise  window  and  she  was  gone. 

The  corner  being  out  of  the  way  of  the  idle  and 
curious,  and  the  preparations  having  been  very  simple 
and  few,  the  Doctor,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross,  were 
left  quite  alone.  It  was  when  they  turned  into  the  weh 
come  shade  of  the  cool  old  hall,  that  Mr.  Lorry  observed 
a great  change  to  have  come  over  the  Doctor  ; as  if  the 
gmden  arm  uplifted  there,  had  struck  him  a poisoned 
blow. 

He  had  naturally  repressed  much,  and  some  revulsion 
might  have  been  expected  in  him  when  the  occasion  for 
repression  was  gone.  But,  it  was  the  old  scared  lost 
look  that  troubled  Mr.  Lorry  ; and  through  his  absent 
manner  of  clasping  his  head  and  drearily  wandering 
away  into  his  own  room  when  they  got  up-stairs,  Mr. 
Lorry  was  reminded  of  Defarge  the  wine-shop  keeper, 
and  the  starlight  ride. 

“ I think,"  he  whispered  to  Miss  Pross,  after  anxious 
consideration,  “ I think  we  had  best  not  to  speak  to  him 
lust  now,  or  at  all  disturb  him.  I must  look  in  at  Tell 
son's  ; so  I will  go  there  at  once  and  come  back  pres 
ently.  Then,  we  will  take  him  a ride  into  the  country 
and  dine  there,  and  all  will  be  well." 

It  was  easier  for  Mr.  Lorry  to  look  in  at  Tellson's  than 
to  look  out  of  Tellson's.  He  was  detained  two  hours. 
When  he  came  back,  he  ascended  the  old  staircase  alone* 
having  asked  no  question  of  the  servant  ; going  thus 


172 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


into  the  Doctor’s  rooms,  he  was  stopped  by  a low  sound 
of  knocking. 

“ Good  God  ! ” he  said,  with  a start.  “ What’s  that  ? ” 

Miss  Pross,  with  a terrified  face,  was  at  his  ear.  “ O 
me,  0 me  ! All  is  lost  ! ” cried  she  wringing  her  hands. 
“ What  is  to  be  told  to  Ladybird  ? He  doesn’t  know  me, 
and  is  making  shoes  ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  said  what  he  could  to  calm  her,  and  went 
himself  into  the  Doctor’s  room.  The  bench  was  turned 
towards  the  light,  as  it  had  been  when  he  had  seen  the 
shoemaker  at  his  work  before,  and  his  head  was  bent 
down,  and  he  was  very  busy. 

“ Doctor  Manette.  My  dear  friend,  Doctor  Manette  ! ” 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  for  a moment — half  inquir- 
ingly, half  as  if  he  were  angry  at  being  spoken  to — and 
bent  over  his  work  again. 

He  had  laid  aside  his  coat  and  ^waistcoat ; his  shirt  was 
open  at  the  throat,  as  it  used  to  be  when  he  did  that 
work ; and  even  the  old  haggard  faded  surface  of  face 
had  come  back  to  him.  He  worked  hard — impatiently 
— as  if  in  some  sense  of  having  been  interrupted. 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  work  in  his  hand,  and  ob* 
served  that  it  was  a shoe  of  the  old  size  and  shape.  He 
took  up  another  that  was  lying  by  him,  and  asked  him 
what  it  was  ? 

“ A young  lady’s  walking  shoe,”  he  muttered,  without 
looking  up.  “ It  ought  to  have  been  finished  long  ago. 
Let  it  be.” 

“ But,  Doctor  Manette.  Look  at  me  ! ” 

He  obeyed,  in  the  old  mechanically  submissive  man- 
ner, without  pausing  in  his  work. 

“ You  know  me,  my  dear  friend  ? Think  again.  This 
Is  not  your  proper  occupation.  Think,  dear  friend  ! ” 

Nothing  would  induce  him  to  speak  more.  He  looked 
up,  for  an  instant  at  a time,  when  he  was  requested  to  do 
so ; but,  no  persuasion  could  extract  a word  from  him. 
He  worked,  and  worked,  and  worked,  in  silence,  and 
words  fell  on  him  as  they  would  have  fallen  on  an  echo- 
less wall,  or  on  the  air.  The  only  ray  of  hope  that  Mr. 
Lorry  could  discover,  was,  that  lie  sometimes  furtively 
looked  up  without  being  asked.  In  that,  there  seemed 
a faint  expression  of  curiosity  or  perplexity — as  though 
he  were  trying  to  reconcile  some  doubts  in  his  mind. 

Two  things  at  once  impressed  themselves  on  Mr. 
Lorry,  as  important  above  all  others  ; the  first,  that  this 
must  be  kept  secret  from  Lucie  ; the  second,  that  it 
must  be  kept  secret  from  all  who  knew  him.  In  conjunc- 
tion with  Miss  Pross,  he  took  immediate  steps  towards 
the  latter  precaution,  by  giving  out  that  the  Doctor  was 
yiot  well,  and  required  a few  days  of  complete  rest.  In 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ITS 


aid  of  the  kind  deception  to  he  practised  on  his  daughter. 
Miss  Pross  was  to  write,  describing  his  having  been  called 
away  professionally,  and  referring  to  an  imaginary  letter 
of  two  or  three  hurried  lines  in  his  own  hand,  represented 
to  have  been  addressed  to  her  by  the  same  post. 

These  measures,  advisable  to  be  taken  in  any  case, 
Mr.  Lorry  took  in  the  hope  of  his  coming  to  himself.  If 
that  should  happen  soon,  he  kept  another  course  in  re- 
serve ; which  was,  to  have  a certain  opinion  that  h© 
thought  the  best,  on  the  Doctor’s  case. 

In  the  hope  of  his  recovery,  and  of  resort  to  this  third 
course  being  thereby  rendered  practicable,  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
solved to  watch  him  attentively,  with  as  little  appear- 
ance as  possible  of  doing  so.  He  therefore  made  arrange- 
ments to  absent  himself  from  Tellson’s  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  and  took  his  post  by  the  window  in  the  same 
room. 

He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  it  was  worse  than 
useless  to  speak  to  him,  since,  on  being  pressed,  he  be- 
came worried.  He  abandoned  that  attempt  on  the  first 
day,  and  resolved  merely  to  keep  himself  always  before 
him,  as  a silent  protest  against  the  delusion  into  which 
he  had  fallen,  or  was  falling.  He  remained,  therefore, 
in  his  seat  near  the  window.,  reading  and  writing,  and 
expressing  in  as  many  pleasant  and  natural  ways  as  he 
Could  think  of,  that  it  was  a free  place. 

Doctor  Manette  took  what  was  given  him  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  worked  on  that  first  day,  until  it  was  too  dark 
to  see — worked  on,  half  an  hour  after  Mr.  Lorry  could 
not  have  seen,  for  his  life,  to  read  or  write.  When  he 
put  his  tools  aside  as  useless,  until  morning,  Mr.  Lorry 
rose  and  said  to  him  • 

“ Will  you  go  out  ?” 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor  on  either  side  of  him  in 
the  old  manner,  looked  up  in  the  old  manner  and  re- 
peated in  the  old  low  voice  : 

“ Out?” 

“ Yes  ; for  a walk  with  me.  Why  not?” 

He  made  no  effort  to  say  why  not,  and  said  not  a word 
more.  But,  Mr.  Lorry  thought  he  saw,  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward on  his  bench  in  the  dusk,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands,  that  he  was  in  some 
misty  way  asking  himself,  “ Why  not?”  The  sagacity 
of  the  man  of  business  perceived  an  advantage  here,  and 
determined  to  hold  it. 

Miss  Pross  and  he  divided  the  night  into  two  watches., 
and  observed  him  at  intervals  from  the  adjoining  room. 
He  paced  up  and  down  for  a long  time  before  he  lay 
down ; but,  when  he  did  finally  lay  himself  down,  he 
fell  asleep.  In  the  morning,  he  was  up  betimes,  and 
went  straight  to  his  bench  and  to  work. 


174  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

On  this  second  day,  Mr.  Lorry  saluted  him  cheerfully 
by  his  name,  and  spoke  to  him  on  topics  that  had  been  of 
late  familiar  to  them.  He  returned  no  reply,  but  it  was 
evident  that  he  heard  what  was  said,  and  that  he  thought 
about  it,  however  confusedly.  This  encouraged  Mr. 
Lorry  to  have  Miss  Pross  in  with  her  work,  several  times 
during  the  day  ; at  those  times,  they  quietly  spoke  of 
Lucie,  and  of  her  father  then  present,  precisely  in  their 
usual  manner,  and  as  if  there  were  nothing  amiss. 
This  was  done  without  any  demonstative  accompani- 
ment, not  long  enough,  or  often  enough  to  harass  him  ; 
and  it  lightened  Mr.  Lorry’s  friendly  heart  to  believe 
that  he  looked  up  oftener,  and  that  he  appeared  to  be 
stirred  by  some  perception  of  inconsistencies  surround- 
ing him. 

When  it  fell  dark  again,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  as  be- 
fore : 

“ Dear  Doctor,  will  you  go  out  ? ” 

As  before,  he  repeated,  “ Out  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; for  a walk  with  me.  Why  not  ? ” 

This  time,  Mr.  Lorry  feigned  to  go  out  when  he  could 
extract  no  answer  from  him,  and,  after  remaining  absent 
for  an  hour,  returned.  In  the  mean  while,  the  Doctor 
had  removed  to  the  seat  in  the  window,  and  had  sat 
there  looking  down  at  the  plane-tree ; but,  on  Mr. 
Lorry’s  return,  he  slipped  away  to  his  bench. 

The  time  went  very  slowly  on,  and  Mr.  Lorry’s  hope 
darkened,  and  his  heart  grew  heavier  again,  and  grew 
yet  heavier  and  heavier  every  day.  The  third  day  came 
and  went,  the  fourth,  the  fifth.  Five  days,  six  days, 
seven  days,  eight  days,  nine  days. 

With  a hope  ever  darkening,  and  with  a heart  always 
growing  heavier  and  heavier,  Mr.  Lorry  passed  through 
this  anxious  time.  The  secret  was  well  kept,  and  Lucie 
was  unconscious  and  happy ; but,  he  could  not  fail  to 
observe  that  the  shoemaker,  whose  hand  had  been  a lit- 
tle out  at  first,  was  growing  dreadfully  skilful,  and  that 
he  had  never  been  so  intent  on  his  work,  and  that  his 
hands  had  never  been  so  nimble  and  expert,  as  in  the 
dusk  of  the  ninth  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

An  Opinion . 

Worn  out  by  anxious  watching,  Mr.  Lorry  fell  asleep 
at  his  post.  On  the  tenth  morning  of  his  suspense,  he 
*was  startled  by  the  shining  of  the  sun  into  the  room 


A tali:  of  two  cities. 


175 


where  a heavy  slumber  had  overtaken  him  when  it  was 
dark  night. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  roused  himself ; but  he 
doubted  when  he  had  done  so,  whether  he  was  not  still 
asleep.  For,  going  to  the  door  of  the  Doctor's  room  and 
looking  in,  he  perceived  that  the  shoemaker’s  bench  and 
tools  were  put  aside  again,  and  that  the  Doctor  himself 
sat  reading  at  the  window.  He  was  in  his  usual  morn- 
ing dress,  and  his  face  (which  Mr.  Lorry  could  distinctly 
see),  though  still  very  pale,  was  calmly  studious  and 
attentive. 

Even  when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  awake, 
Mr.  Lorry  felt  giddily  uncertain  for  some  few  moments 
whether  the  late  shoemaking  might  not  be  a disturbed 
dream  of  his  own  ; for,  did  not  his  eyes  show  him  his 
friend  before  him  in  his  accustomed  clothing  and  aspect, 
and  employed  as  usual ; and  was  there  any  sign  within 
their  range,  that  the  change  of  which  he  had  so  strong 
an  impression  had  actually  happened  ? 

It  was  but  the  inquiry  of  his  first  confusion  and  aston- 
ishment, the  answer  being  obvious.  If  the  impression 
were  not  produced  by  a real  corresponding,  and  sufficient 
cause,  how  came  he,  Jarvis  Lorry,  there  ? How  came  he 
to  have  fallen  asleep,  in  his  clothes,  on  the  sofa  in  Doc- 
tor Manette’s  consulting-room,  and  to  be  debating  these 
points  outside  the  Doctor’s  bedroom  door  in  the  early 
morning  ? 

Within  a few  minutes,  Miss  Pross  stood  whispering  at 
his  side.  If  he  had  had  any  particle  of  doubt  left,  her 
talk  would  of  necessity  have  resolved  it  ; but  he  was  by 
that  time  clear-headed,  and  had  none.  He  advised  that 
they  should  let  the  time  go  by  until  the  regular  break- 
fast-hour, and  should  then  meet  the  Doctor  as  if  nothing 
unusual  had  occurred.  If  he  appeared  to  be  in  his  cus- 
tomary state  of  mind,  Mr.  Lorry  would  then  cautiously 
proceed  to  seek  direction  and  guidance  from  the  opinion 
he  had  been,  in  his  anxiety,  so  anxious  to  obtain. 

Miss  Pross,  submitting  herself  to  his  judgment,  the 
scheme  was  worked  out  with  care.  Having  abundance 
of  time  for  his  usual  methodical  toilette,  Mr.  Lorry  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  breakfast-hour  in  his  usual  white 
linen  and  with  his  usual  neat  leg.  The  Doctor  was 
summoned  in  the  usual  way,  and  came  to  breakfast. 

So  far  as  it  was  possible  to  comprehend  him  without 
overstepping  those  delicate  and  gradual  approaches 
which  Mr.  Lorry  felt  to  be  the  only  safe  advance,  he  at 
first  supposed  that  his  daughter’s  marriage  had  taken 
place  yesterday.  An  incidental  allusion,  purposely 
thrown  out,  to  the  day  of  the  week,  and  the  day  of  the 
month,  set  him  thinking  and  counting,  and  evidently 
made  him  uneasy.  In  all  other  respects,  however,  ho 


176  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

was  so  composedly  himself,  that  Mr.  Lorry  determined 
to  have  the  aid  he  sought.  And  that  aid  was  his  own. 

Therefore,  when  the  breakfast  was  done  and  c] eared 
away,  and  he  and  the  Doctor  were  left  together,  Mr. 
Lorry  said,  feelingly  : 

“ My  dear  Manette,  I am  anxious  to  have  your  opinion, 
in  confidence,  on  a very  curious  case  in  which  I am  deeply 
interested  ; that  is  to  say,  it  is  very  curious  to  me  ; per- 
haps, to  your  better  information  it  may  be  less  so.  ” 

Glancing  at  his  hands,  which  were  discoloured  by  his 
late  work,  the  Doctor  looked  troubled,  and  listened  at- 
tentively. He  had  already  glanced  at  his  hands  more 
than'  once. 

“ Doctor  Manette,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  touching  hirq 
affectionately  on  the  arm,  “ the  case  is  a case  of  a particu- 
larly dear  friend  of  mine.  Pray  give  your  mind  to  it,  and 
advise  me  well  for  his  sake — and  above  all  for  his  daugh- 
ter’s— his  daughter’s,  my  dear  Manette.” 

UKI  understand,”  said  the  Doctor,  in  a subdued  tone, 
3 some  mental  shock  ? ” 

“Yes  1” 

“ Be  explicit,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ Spare  no  details.” 

Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  they  understood  one  another,  and 
proceeded. 

“ My  dear  Manette,  it  is  the  case  of  an  old  and  a 
prolonged  shock,  of  great  acuteness. and  severity,  to  the 
affections,  the  feelings,  the — the— as  you  express  it — the 
mind.  The  mind.  It  is  the  case  of  a shock  under 
which  the  sufferer  was  borne  down,  one  cannot  say  for 
how  long,  because  I believe  he  cannot  calculate  the  time 
himself,  and  there  are  no  other  means  of  getting  at  it. 
It  is  the  case  of  a shock  from  which  the  sufferer  recov- 
ered, by  a process  that  he  cannot  trace  himself —as  I once 
heard  him  publicly  relate  in  a striking  manner.  It  is 
the  case  of  a shock  from  which  he  has  recovered,  so 
completely,  as  to  be  a highly  intelligent  man,  capable  of 
Close  application  of  mind,  and  great  exertion  of  body, 
and  of  constantly  making  fresh  additions  to  his  stock 
of  knowledge,  which  was  already  very  large.  But,  un- 
fortunately, there  has  been,”  he  paused  and  took  a deep 
breath — “ a slight  relapse.” 

The  Doctor,  in  a low  voice,  asked,  “ Of  how  long  du- 
ration ? ” 

“ Nine  days  and  nights.” 

“How  did  it  show  itself?  I infer,”  glancing  at  his 
hands  again,  “ in  the  resumption  of  some  old  pursuit 
connected  with  the  shock  ? ” 

“ That  is  the  fact.” 

“ Now,  did  you  ever  see  him,”  asked  the  Doctor,  dis- 
tinctly and  collectedly,  though  in  the  same  low  voice* 
€(  engaged  in  that  pursuit  originally  ? ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


m 


iC  Qnce.?? 

“ And  when  the  relapse  fell  on  him,  was  he  in  most 
respects — or  in  all  respects— as  he  was  then  ? ” 

“ I think,  in  all  respects.” 

“ You  spoke  of  his  daughter.  Does  his  daughter 
know  of  the  relapse  ? ” 

“ No.  It  has  been  kept  from  her,  and  I hope  will 
always  be  kept  from  her.  It  is  known  only  to  myself, 
and  to  one  other  who  may  be  trusted.” 

The  Doctor  grasped  his  hand,  and  murmured,  ‘ ‘ That 
was  very  kind.  That  was  very  thoughtful  ! ” Mr. 
Lorry  grasped  his  hand  in  return,  neither  of  the  two 
spoke  for  a little  while. 

“Now,  my  dear  Manette,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  at  length, 
in  his  most  considerate  and  most  affectionate  way,  “I 
am  a mere  man  of  business,  and  unfit  to  cope  with  such 
intricate  and  difficult  matters.  I do  not  possess  the  kind 
of  information  necessary  ; I do  not  possess  the  kind  of 
intelligence  ; I want  guiding.  There  is  no  man  in  this 
world  on  whom  I could  so  rely  for  right  guidence,  as  on 
you.  Tell  me,  how  does  this  relapse  come  about  ? Is 
there  danger  of  another  ? Could  a repetition  of  it  be 
prevented  ? How  should  a repetition  of  it  be  treated  ? 
How  does  it  come  about  at  all  ? What  can  I do  for  my 
friend?  No  man  ever  can  have  been  more  desirous  in 
his  heart  to  serve  a friend,  than  I am  to  serve  mine,  if  I 
knew  how.  But  I don’t  know  how  to  originate,  in  such 
a case.  If  your  sagacity,  knowledge,  and  experience, 
could  put  me  on  the  right  track,  I might  be  able  to  do 
so  much  ; unenlightened  and  undirected,  I can  do  so 
little.  Pray  discuss  it  with  me  ; pray  enable  me  to  see 
it  a little  more  clearly,  and  teach  me  how  to  be  a little 
more  useful.” 

Doctor  Manette  sat  meditating  after  these  earnest 
words  were  spoken,  and  Mr.  Lorry  did  not  press  him. 

“ I think  it  probable,”  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  silence 
with  an  effort,  “ that  the  relapse  you  have  described, 
my  dear  friend,  was  not  quite  unforeseen  by  its  sub- 
ject.” 

“Was  it  dreaded  by  him?”  Mr.  Lorry  ventured  to 
ask. 

“Very  much.”  He  said  it  with  an  involuntary 
shudder.  “ You  have  no  idea  how  such  an  apprehen- 
sion weighs  on  the  sufferer’s  mind,  and  how  difficult — 
how  almost  impossible — it  is  for  him  to  force  himself 
to  utter  a word  upon  the  topic  that  oppresses  him.” 

“ Would  he,”  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  “ be  sensibly  relieved  if 
he  could  prevail  upon  himself  to  impart  that  secret 
brooding  to  any  one,  when  it  is  on  him  ? ” 

“ I think  so.  But  it  is,  as  I have  told  you,  next  to  im 


178 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


possible.  I even  believe  it — in  some  cases — to  be  quite 
impossible.  ” 

“ Now,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  gently  laying  bis  band  on  tbe 
Doctor’s  arm  again,  after  a short  silence  on  both  sides, 
“ to  what  would  you  refer  this  attack  ?” 

“ I believe,”  returned  Doctor  Manette,  “ that  there 
had  been  a strong  and  extraordinary  revival  of  the  train 
of  thought  and  remembrance  that  was  the  first  cause  of 
the  malady.  Some  intense  associations  of  a most  dis- 
tressing nature  were  ‘Vividly  recalled,  I think.  It  is 
probable  that  there  had  long  been  a dread  lurking  in  his 
mind,  that  those  associations  would  be  recalled — say, 
under  certain  circumstances — say,  on  a particular  occa- 
sion. He  tried  to  prepare  himself,  in  vain  ; perhaps  the 
effort  to  prepare  himself,  made  him  less  able  to  bear  it.  ” 

“ Would  he  remember  what  took  place  in  the  relapse  ? ” 
asked  Mr.  Lorry,  with  natural  hesitation. 

The  Doctor  looked  desolately  round  the  room,  shook 
his  head,  and  answered,  in  a low  voice  “ Not  at  all.” 

“ Now,  as  to  the  future,”  hinted  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ As  to  the  future,”  said  the  Doctor,  recovering  firm- 
ness, “ I should  have  great  hope.  As  it  pleased  Heaven 
in  its  Mercy  to  restore  him  so  soon,  I should  have  great 
hope.  He,  yielding  under  the  pressure  of  a complicated 
something,  long  dreaded  and  long  vaguely  foreseen  and* 
contended  against,  and  recovering  after  the  cloud  had 
burst  and  passed,  I should  hope  that  the  worst  was  over.” 

“ Well,  well  ! That’s  good  comfort.  I am  thankful  ! ” 
said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ I am  thankful ! ” repeated  the  Doctor,  bending  his 
head  with  reverence. 

“ There  are  two  other  points,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “on 
which  I am  anxious  to  be  instructed.  I may  go  on  ? ” 

“You  cannot  do  your  friend  a better  service.”  The 
Doctor  gave  him  his  hand. 

“ To  the  first,  then.  He  is  of  a studious  habit,  and 
unusually  energetic  ; he  applies  himself  with  great  ar- 
dour to  the  acquisition  of  professional  knowledge,  to  the 
conducting  of  experiments,  to  many  things.  Now,  does 
he  do  too  much  ? ” 

“ I think  not.  It  may  be  the  character  of  his  mind,  to 
be  always  in  singular  need  of  occupation.  That  may  be, 
in  part,  natural  to  it ; in  part,  the  result  of  affliction. 
The  less  it  was  occupied  with  healthy  things,  the  more 
it  would  be  in  danger  of  turning  in  the  unhealthy  direc- 
tion. He  may  have  observed  himself,  and  made  the  dis- 
covery.” 

“ You  are  sure  that  he  is  not  under  too  great  a strain?” 

“ I think  I am  quite  sure  of  it.” 

41  My  dear  Manette,  if  he  were  overworked  now — ” 

“ My  dear  Lorry,  I doubt  if  that  could  easily  be. 


180 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


There  has  been  a violent  stress  in  one  direction,  and 
needs  a counter- weight/’ 

“ Excuse  me,  as  a persistent  man  of  business.  As- 
suming for  a moment,  that  he  was  overworked  ; it  would 
show  itself  in  some  renewal  of  this  disorder  ? ” 

“ I do  not  think  so.  1 do  not  think,”  said  Doctor  Ma. 
nette  with  the  firmness  of  self- conviction,  “that  any- 
thing but  the  one  train  of  association  would  renew  it. 
I think  that,  henceforth,  nothing  but  some  extraordinary 
jarring  of  that  chord  could  renew  it.  After  wffiat  has 
happened,  and  after  his  recovery,  I find  it  difficult  to 
imagine  any  such  violent  sounding  of  that  string  again. 
I trust,  and  I almost  believe,  that  the  circumstances 
likely  to  renew'  it  are  exhausted.” 

He  spoke  with  the  diffidence  of  a man  who  knew  how 
slight  a thing  would  overset  the  delicate  organisation  of 
the  mind,  and  yet  with  the  confidence  of  a man  who  had 
slowly  won  his  assurance  out  of  personal  endurance  and 
distress.  It  was  not  for  his  friend  to  abate  that  confi- 
dence. He  professed  himself  more  relieved  and  encour- 
aged than  he  really  w~as,  and  approached  his  second  and 
last  point.  He  felt  it  to  be  the  most  difficult  of  all ; but, 
remembering  his  old  Sunday  morning  conversation  with 
Miss  Pross,  and  remembering  wffiat  he  had  seen  in  the 
last  nine  days,  he  knew  that  he  must  face  it. 

“The  occupation  resumed  under  the  influence  of  this 
passing  affliction  so  happily  recovered  from,”  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  clearing  his  throat,  “we  will  call — Blacksmith’s 
work.  Blacksmith’s  work.  We  will  say,  to  put  a case 
and  for  the  sake  of  illustration,  that  he  had  been  used  in 
his  bad  time,  to  work  at  a little  forge.  We  will  say 
that  he  was  unexpectedly  found  at  his  forge  again.  Is 
it  not  a pity  that  he  should  keep  it  by  him  ? ” 

The  Doctor  shaded  his  forehead  with  his  hand,  and 
beat  his  foot  nervously  on  the  ground. 

“ He  has  always  kept  it  by  him,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with 
an  anxious  look  at  his  friend.  “ Now,  would  it  not  be 
better  that  be  should  let  it  go  ? ” 

Still,  the  Doctor,  with  shaded  forehead,  heat  his  foot 
nervously  on  the  ground. 

“You  do  not  find  it  easy  to  advise  me?”  said  Mr, 
Lorry.  “ I quite  understand  it  to  be  a nice  question. 
And  yet  I think — ” And  there  he  shook  his  head,  and 
stopped. 

“ You  see,”  said  Doctor  Manette,  turning  to  him  after 
an  uneasy  pause,  it  is  very  hard  to  explain,  consistently, 
the  innermost  working  of  this  poor  man’s  mind.  He 
once  yearned  so  frightfully  for  that  occupation,  and  it 
was  so  welcome  wffien  it  came  ; no  doubt  it  relieved  his 
pain  so  much,  by  substituting  the  perplexity  of  the  fin- 
gers for  the  perplexity  of  the  brain,  and  by  substituting. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


181 


m lie  became  more  practised,  tlie  ingenuity  of  the  hands 
for  the  ingenuity  of  the  mental  torture  ; that  he  has 
never  been  able  to  bear  the  thought  of  putting  it  quite 
out  of  his  reach.  Even  now,  when,  I believe,  he  is  more 
hopeful  of  himself  than  he  has  ever  been,  and  even 
speaks  of  himself  with  a kind  of  confidence,  the  idea 
that  he  might  need  that  old  employment,  and  not  find  it, 
gives  him  a sudden  sense  of  terror,  like  that  which  one 
may  fancy  strikes  to  the  heart  of  a lost  child.” 

He  looked  like  his  illustration,  as  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  Mr.  Lorry’s  face. 

“ But  may  not — mind  ! I ask  for  information,  as  a 
plodding  man  of  business  who  only  deals  with  such  ma- 
terial objects  as  guineas,  shillings,  and  bank-notes — may 
not  the  retention  of  the  thing,  involve  the  retention  of 
the  idea  ? If  the  thing  were  gone,  my  dear  Manette, 
might  not  the  fear  go  with  it  ? In  short,  is  it  not  a con- 
cession to  the  misgiving,  to  keep  the  forge  ?” 

There  was  another  silence. 

“You  see,  too,”  said  the  Doctor,  tremulously,  “it  is 
such  an  old  companion.” 

“I  would  not  keep  it,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking  his 
head  ; for  he  gained  in  firmness  as  he  saw  the  Doctor 
disquieted.  “ I would  recommend  him  to  sacrifice  it. 
I only  want  your  authority.  I am  sure  it  does  no  good. 
Come  ! Give  me  your  authority,  like  a dear  good  man. 
For  his  daughter’s  sake,  my  dear  Manette  ! ” 

Very  strange  to  see  what  a struggle  there  was  within 
him  i 

‘ £ In  her  name,  then,  let  it  be  done  ; I sanction  it.  But, 
I would  not  take  it  away  wrhile  he  was  present.  Let  it 
be  removed  when  he  is  not  there  ; let  him  miss  his  old 
companion  after  an  absence.” 

Mr.  Lorry  readily  engaged  for  that,  and  the  confer- 
ence was  ended.  They  passed  the  day  in  the  country, 
and  the  Doctor  was  quite  restored.  On  the  three  follow- 
ing days,  he  remained  perfectly  well,  and  on  the  four- 
teenth day,  he  went  away  to  join  Lucie  and  her  husband. 
The  precaution  that  had  been  taken  to  account  for  his 
silence,  Mr.  Lorry  had  previously  explained  to  him,  and 
he  had  written  to  Lucie  in  accordance  with  it,  and  she 
had  no  suspicions. 

On  the  night  of  the  day  on  which  he  left  the  house. 
Mr.  Lorry  went  into  his  room  with  a chopper,  saw,  chisel, 
and  hammer,  attended  by  Miss  Pross  carrying  a light. 
There,  with  closed  doors,  and  in  a mysterious  and  guilty 
manner,  Mr.  Lorry  hacked  the  shoemaker’s  bench  to 
pieces,  while  Miss  Pross  held  the  candle,  as  if  she  were 
assisting  at  a murder — for  which,  indeed,  in  her  grim- 
ness, she  was  no  unsuitable  figure.  The  burning  of  the 
body  (previously  reduced  to  pieces  convenient  for  the 


182 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


purpose),  was  commenced  without  delay  in  the  kitchen 
fire;  and  the  tools,  shoes,  and  leather,  were  buried  in 
the  garden.  So  wicked  do  destruction  and  secrecy  ap- 
pear to  honest  minds,  that  Mr.  Lorry  and  Miss  Pross, 
while  engaged  in  the  commission  of  their  deed  and  in 
the  removal  of  its  traces,  almost  felt,  and  almost  looked, 
like  accomplices  in  a horrible  crime. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A Plea. 

When  the  newly -married  pair  came  home,  the  first 
person  who  appeared,  to  offer  his  congratulations,  was 
Sydney  Carton.  They  had  not  been  at  home  many 
hours,  when  he  presented  himself.  He  was  not  improved 
in  habits,  or  in  looks,  or  in  manner  ; but,  there  was  a 
certain  rugged  air  of  fidelity  about  him,  which  was  new 
to  the  observation  of  Charles  Darnay. 

He  watched  his  opportunity  of  taking  Darnay  aside 
into  a window,  and  of  speaking  to  him  when  no  one  over- 
heard. 

“Mr.  Darnay,”  said  Carton,  “I  wish  we  might  be 
friends.  ” 

“ We  are  already  friends,  I hope.” 

“You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  as  a fashion  of 
speech ; but,  I don’t  mean  any  fashion  of  speech.  In- 
deed, when  I say  I wish  we  might  be  friends,  I scarcely 
mean  quite  that,  either.” 

Charles  Darnay — as  was  natural — asked  him,  in  all 
good  humour  and  good-fellowship,  what  he  did  mean  ? 

“Upon  my  life,”  said  Carton,  smiling,  “I  find  that 
easier  to  comprehend  in  my  own  mind,  than  to  convey  to 
yours.  However,  let  me  try.  You  remember  a certain 
famous  occasion  when  I was  more  drunk  than — than 
usual  ?” 

“I  remember  a certain  famous  occasion  when  you 
forced  me  to  confess  that  you  had  been  drinking.  ” 

“I  remember  it  too.  The  curse  of  those  occasions  is 
heavy  upon  me,  for  I always  remember  them.  I hop© 
it  may  be  taken  into  account  one  day,  when  all  days  are 
at  an  end  for  me  ! — Don’t  be-alarmed  ; I am  not  going 
to  preach.” 

“ I am  not  at  all  alarmed.  Earnestness  in  you,  is  any- 
thing but  alarming  to  me.” 

“Ah  ! ” said  Carton,  with  a careless  wave  of  his  hand, 
as  if  he  waved  that  away.  “On  the  drunken  occasion 
in  question  (one  of  a large  number,  as  you  know),  I was 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


183 


insufferable  about  liking  you,  and  not  liking  you.  I wish 
you  would  forget  it/’ 

“ I forgot  it  long  ago.”  . 

“ Fashion  of  speech  again  ! But,  Mr.  Darnay,  obli- 
vion is  not  so  easy  to  me,  as  you  represent  it  to  be  to 
you.  I have  by  no  means  forgotten  it,  and  a light  answer 
does  not  help  me  to  forget  it.” 

“If  it  was  a light  answer,”  returned  Barney,  “ I beg 
your  forgiveness  for  it.  I had  no  other  object  than  to 
turn  a slight  thing,  which,  to  my  surprise,  seems  to 
trouble  you  too  much,  aside.  I declare  to  you,  on  the 
faith  of  a gentleman,  that  I have  long  dismissed  it  from 
my  mind.  Good  Heaven,  what  was  there  to  dismiss  ! 
Have  I had  nothing  more  important  to  remember,  in  ths 
great  service  you  rendered  me  that  day?” 

“As  to  the  great  service,”  said  Carton,  “ I am  bound 
to  avow  to  you,  when  you  speak  of  it  in  that  way,  that 
it  was  mere  professional  clap-trap.  I don't  know  that  I 
cared  what  became  of  you,  when  I rendered  it. — Mind  ! 
I say  when  I rendered  it ; I am  speaking  of  the  past.” 

“You  make  light  of  the  obligation,”  returned  Bar- 
nay,  “ but  I will  not  quarrel  with  your  light  answer.” 

“ Genuine  truth,  Mr.  Darnay,  trust  me  ! I have  gone 
aside  Horn  my  purpose  ; I was  speaking  about  our  being 
friends.  Now,  you  know  me  ; you  know  I am  incapable 
of  all  the  higher  and  better  flights  of  men.  If  you  doubt 
it,  ask  Stryver,  and  he’ll  tell  you  so.” 

“ I prefer  to  form  my  own  opinion,  without  the  aid  of 
his.” 

“ Well  ! At  any  rate  you  know  me  as  a dissolute  dog, 
who  has  never  done  any  good,  and  never  will.” 

“ I don’t  know  that  you  ‘never  will.’” 

“ But  I do,  and  you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Well  I 
If  you  could  endure  to  have  such  a worthless  fellow,  and 
a fellow  of  such  indifferent  reputation,  coming  and  go- 
ing at  odd  times,  I should  ask  that  I might  be  permitted 
to  come  and  go  as  a privileged  person  here  ; that  I might 
be  regarded  as  an  useless  (and  I would  add,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  resemblance  I detected  between  you  and  me, 
an  unornamental)  piece  of  furniture,  tolerated  for  its  old 
service,  and  taken  no  notice  of.  I doubt  if  I should 
abuse  the  permission.  It  is  a hundred  to  one  if  I should 
avail  myself  of  it  four  times  in  a year.  It  would  satisfy 
me,  I dare  say,  to  know  that  I had  it.” 

“ Will  you  try  ? ” 

“ That  Is  another  way  of  saying  that  I am  placed  on 
the  footing  I have  indicated.  I thank  you,  Darnay  0 I 
may  use  that  freedom  with  your  name  ? ” 

“ I think  so,  Carton,  by  this  time.” 

They  shook  hands  upon  it,  and  Sydney  turned  away. 


184 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Within  a minute  afterwards,  lie  was  to  all  outward 
appearance,  as  unsubstantial  as  ever. 

When  he  was  gone,  arid  in  the  course  of  an  evening 
passed  with  Miss  Pross,  the  Doctor,  and  Mr.  Lorry, 
Charles  Darnay  made  some  mention  of  this  conversation 
in  general  terms,  and  spoke  of  Sydney  Carton  as  a 
problem  of  carelessness  and  recklessness.  He  spoke  of 
him,  in  short,  not  bitterly  or  meaning  to  bear  hard  upon 
him,  but  as  anybody  might  who  saw  him  as  he  showed 
himself. 

He  had  no  idea  that  this  could  dwell  in  the  thoughts 
of  his  fair  young  wife  ; but,  when  he  afterwards  joined 
her  in  their  own  rooms,  he  found  her  waiting  for  him 
with  the  old  pretty  lifting  of  the  forehead  strongly 
marked. 

“We  are  thoughtful  to-night  ! ” said  Darnay,  drawing 
his  arm  about  her. 

“Yes,  dearest  Charles,”  with  her  hands  on  his  breast, 
and  the  inquiring  and  attentive  expression  fixed  upon 
him  ; “we  are  rather  thoughtful  to-night,  for  we  have 
something  on  our  mind  to  night.” 

“ What  is  it,  my  Lucie  ? ” 

“ Will  you  promise  not  to  press  one  question  on  me,  if 
I beg  you  not  to  ask  it  ? ” 

“Will  I promise?  What  will  I not  promise  to  my 
Love  ? ” 

What,  indeed,  with  his  hand  putting  aside  the  golden 
hair  from  the  cheek,  and  his  other  hand  against  the 
heart  that  beat  for  him  ! 

“ I think,  Charles,  poor  Mr.  Carton  deserves  more 
consideration  and  respect  than  you  expressed  for  him  to- 
night.” 

“ Indeed,  my  own  ? Why  so  ? ” 

“That  is  what  you  are  not  to  ask  me?  But  I think — 
I know — he  does.” 

“ If  you  know  it,  it  is  enough.  What  would  you  have 
me  do,  my  Life  ? ” 

“ I would  ask  you,  dearest,  to  be  very  generous  with 
him  always,  and  very  lenient  on  his  faults  when  he  is 
not  by.  I would  ask  you  to  believe  that  he  has  a heart 
he  very,  very  seldom  reveals,  and  that  there  are  deep 
wounds  in  it. ' My  dear,  I have  seen  it  bleeding.” 

“ It  is  a painful  reflection  to  me,”  said  Charles  Darnay, 
quite  astounded,  “that  I should  have  done  him  any 
wrong.  I never  thought  this  of  him.” 

“ My  husband,  it  is  so.  I fear  he  is  not  to  be  reclaimed  ; 
there  is  scarcely  a hope  that  anything  in  his  character 
or  fortunes  is  reparable  now.  But,  I am  sure  that  he  is 
capable  of  good  things,  gentle  things,  even  magnanimous 
things.” 

She  looked  so  beautiful  in  the  purity  of  her  faith  in 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


185 


this  lost  man,  that  her  husband  could  have  looked  at 
her  as  she  was,  for  hours. 

“And,  O my  dearest  Love!”  she  urged,  clinging 
nearer  to  him,  laying  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and 
raising  her  eyes  to  his,  “ remember  how  strong  we  are 
in  our  happiness,  and  how  weak  he  is  in  his  misery  ! ” 
The  supplication  touched  him  home.  “ I will  always 
remember  it,  dear  Heart  ! I will  remember  it  as  long  as 
I live.” 

He  bent  over  the  golden  head,  and  put  the  rosy  lips 
to  his,  and  folded  her  in  his  arms.  If  one  forlorn 
wanderer  then  pacing  the  dark  streets,  could  have  heard 
her  innocent  disclosure,  and  could  have  seen  the  drops 
of  pity  kissed  away  by  her  husband,  from  the  soft  blue 
eyes  so  loving  of  that  husband,  he  might  have  cried  to 
the  night — and  the  words  would  not  have  parted  from 
his  lips  for  the  first  time — 

“ God  bless  her  for  her  sweet  compassion  i * 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Echoing  Footsteps . 

A wonderful  corner  for  echoes,  it  has  been  remarked, 
that  corner  where  the  Doctor  lived.  Ever  busily  winding 
the  golden  thread  which  bound  her  husband,  and  her 
father,  and  herself,  and  her  old  directress  and  companion, 
in  a life  of  quiet  bliss,  Lucie  sat  in  the  still  house  in  the 
tranquility  resounding  corner  listening  to  the  echoeing 
footsteps  of  years. 

At  first,  there  were  times,  though  she  was  a perfectly 
happy  young  wife,  when  her  work  would  slowly  fall 
from  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  would  be  dimmed.  For 
there  was  something  coming  in  the  echoes,  something 
light,  afar  off,  and  scarcely  audible  yet,  that  stirred  her 
heart  too  much.  Fluttering  hopes  and  doubts— hopes, 
of  a love  as  yet  unknown  to  her  ; doubts,  of  her  remain- 
ing upon  earth,  to  enjoy  that  new  delight— divided  her 
breast.  Among  the  echoes  then,  there  would  arise  the 
sound  of  footsteps  at  her  own  early  grave  ; and  thoughts 
of  the  husband  who  would  be  left  so  desolate,  and  who 
would  mourn  for  her  so  much,  swelled  to  her  eyes  and 
broke  like  waves. 

That  time  passed,  and  her  little  Lucie  lay  on  her  bosom. 
Then,  among  the  advancing  echoes,  there  was  the 
tread  of  her  tiny  feet  and  the  sound  of  her  prattling 
words.  Let  greater  echoes  resound  as  they  would,  the 
young  mother  at  the  cradle  side  could  always  hear  those 


186 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


coming.  They  came,  and  the  shady  house  was  sunny 
with  a child’s  laugh,  and  the  Divine  friend  of  children, 
to  whom  in  her  trouble  she  had  confided  hers,  seemed 
to  take  her  child  in  his  arms,  as  He  took  the  child  of 
old,  and  made  it  a sacred  joy  to  her. 

Ever  busily  winding  the  golden  thread  that  bound 
them  all  together,  weaving  the  service  of  her  happy  in- 
fluence through  the  tissue  of  all  their  lives,  and  making 
It  predominate  nowhere,  Lucie  heard  in  the  echoes  of 
years  none  but  friendly  and  soothing  sounds.  Her  hus- 
band’s step  was  strong  and  prosperous  among  them  ; her 
father’s,  firm  and  equal.  Lo,  Miss  Pross,  in  harness  of 
string,  awakening  the  echoes,  as  an  unruly  charger, 
whip-corrected,  snorting  and  pawing  the  earth  under  the 
plane-tree  in  the  garden  ! 

Even  when  there  were  sounds  of  sorrow  among  the 
rest,  they  were  not  harsh  nor  cruel.  Even  when  golden 
hair,  like  her  own,  lay  in  a halo,  on  a pillow  round  the 
worn  face  of  a little  boy,  and  he  said,  with  a radiant 
smile,  “ Dear  papa  and  mamma,  I am  very  sorry  to  leave 
von  both,  and  to  leave  my  pretty  sister  ; but  I am  called, 
and  I must  go  ! ” those  were  not  tears  all  of  agony  that 
wetted  his  young  mother’s  cheek,  as  the  spirit  departed 
from  her  embrace  that  had  been  entrusted  to  it.  Suffer 
them  and  forbid  them  not.  They  see  my  Father’s  face. 
O Father,  blessed  words  ! 

Thus,  the  rustling  of  an  Angel’s  wings  got  blended 
with  the  other  echoes,  and  they  were  not  wholly  of  earth, 
but  had  in  them  that  breath  of  Heaven.  Sighs  of  the 
winds  that  blew  over  a little  garden-tomb  were  mingled 
with  them  also,  and  both  were  audible  to  Lucie,  in  & 
hushed  murmur — like  the  breathing  of  a summer  sea 
asleep  upon  a sandy  shore — as  the  little  Lucie,  comically 
studious  at  the  task  of  the  morning,  or  dressing  a doll  at 
her  mother’s  footstool,  chattered  in  the  tongues  of  th8 
Two  Cities  that  were  blended  in  her  life. 

The  echoes  rarely  answered  to  the  actual  tread  of 
Sydney  Carton.  Some  half-dozen  times  a year,  at  most, 
he  claimed  his  privilege  of  coming  in  uninvited,  and 
would  sit  among  them  through  the  evening  as  he  had 
once  done  often.  He  never  came  there,  heated  with 
wine.  And  one  other  thing  regarding  him  was  whisp 
ered  in  the  echoes,  which  has  been  whispered  by  all  true 
echoers  for  ages  and  ages. 

No  man  ever  really  loved  a woman,  lost  her,  and  knew 
her  with  a blameless  though  an  unchanged  mind,  when 
she  was  a wife  and  a mother,  but  her  children  had  a 
strange  sympathy  with  him — an  instinctive  delicacy  of 
pity  for  him.  What  fine  hidden  sensibilities  are  touched 
in  such  a case,  no  echoes  tell ; but  it  is  so,  and  it  was  so 
here.  Carton  was  the  first  stranger  to  whom  little  Lu- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


187 


cie  held  out  her  chubby  arms,  and  he  kept  his  place 
with  her  as  she  grew.  The  little  boy  had  spoken  of 
him,  almost  at  the  last.  “Poor  Carton  ! Kiss  him  for 
me  ! ” 

Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his  way  through  the  law,  like 
some  great  engine  forcing  itself  through  turbid  water, 
and  dragged  his  useful  friend  in  his  wake,  like  a boat 
towed  astern.  As  the  boat  so  favored  is  usually  in  a 
rough  plight  and  mostly  under  water,  so  Sydney  had  a 
swamped  life  of  it.  But,  easy  and  strong  custom,  un- 
happily so  much  easier  and  stronger  in  him  than  any 
stimulating  sense  of  desert  or  disgrace,  made  it  the  life 
he  was  to  lead  ; and  he  no  more  thought  of  emerging 
from  his  state  of  lion’s  jackal,  than  any  real  jackal  may 
be  supposed  to  think  of  rising  to  be  a lion.  Stryver  was 
rich  ; had  married  a florid  widow  with  property  and 
three  boys,  who  had  nothing  particularly  shining  about 
them  but  the  straight  hair  of  their  dumpling  heads. 

These  three  young  gentleman,  Mr.  Stryver,  exuding 
patronage  of  the  most  offensive  quality  from  every  pore, 
had  walked  before  him,  like  three  sheep,  to  the  quiet 
corner  in  Soho,  and  had  offered  as  pupils  to  Lucie’s  hus 
band  : delicately  saying,  “ Halloa  ! here  are  three  lumps 
of  bread-and- cheese  towards  your  matrimonial  pic-nic, 
Darnay  ! ” The  polite  rejection  of  the  three  lumps  of 
bread-and-cheese  had  quite  bloated  Mr.  Stryver  with  in- 
dignation, which  he  afterwards  turned  to  account  in  the 
training  of  the  young  gentlemen,  by  directing  them  to 
beware  of  the  pride  of  Beggars,  like  that  tutor-fellow. 
He  was  also  in  the  habit  of  declaiming  to  Mrs.  Stryver, 
6ver  his  full-bodied  wine,  on  the  arts  Mrs.  Darnay  had 
6nce  put  in  practice  to  “ catch”  him,  and  on  the  dia- 
inond-cut-diamond  arts  in  himself,  madam,  which  had 
rendered  him  “ not  to  be  caught.”  Some  of  his  King’s 
Bench  familiars,  who  were  occasionally  parties  to  the 
full-bodied  wine  and  the  lie,  excused  him  for  the  latter 
by  saying  that  he  had  told  it  so  often,  that  he  believed 
it  himself — which  is  surety  such  an  incorrigible  aggrava- 
tion of  an  originally  bad  offence,  as  to  justify  any  such 
offender’s  being  carried  off  to  some  suitable  retired  spot 
and  there  hanged  out  of  the  way. 

These  were  among  the  echoes  to  which  Lucie,  some- 
times pensive,  sometimes  amused  and  laughing,  listened 
in  the  echoing  corner,  until  her  little  daughter  was  six 
years  old.  How  near  to  her  heart  the  echoes  of  her 
child’s  tread  came,  and  those  of  her  own  dear  father’s, 
always  active  and  self-possessed,  and  those  of  her  dear 
husband’s,  need  not  be  told.  Nor,  how  the  lightest  echo 
of  their  united  home,  directed  by  herself  with  such  a 
wise  and  elegant  thrift  that  it  was  more  abundant  than 
any  waste,  was  music  to  her.  Nor,  how  there  were 


188 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


echoes  all  about  her,  sweet  in  her  ears,  of  the  many 
times  her  father  had  told  her  that  he  found  her  more  de 
voted  to  him  married  (if  that  could  be)  than  single,  and 
of  the  many  times  her  husband  had  said  to  her  that  no 
cares  and  duties  seemed  to  divide  her  love  for  him  or 
her  help  to  him,  and  asked  her  4 4 What  is  the  magic 
secret,  my  darling,  of  your  being  everything  to  all  of  us, 
as  if  there  were  only  one  of  us,  yet  never  seeming  to  be 
hurried,  or  to  have  too  much  to  do  ?” 

But,  there  were  other  echoes,  from  a distance,  that 
rumbled  menacingly  in  the  corner  all  through  this  space 
of  time.  And  it  was  now,  about  little  Lucie’s  sixth 
birthday,  that  they  began  to  have  an  awful  sound,  as  of 
a great  storm  in  France  with  a dreadful  sea  rising. 

On  a night  in  mid  July,  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  eighty-nine,  Mr.  Lorry  came  in  late,  from  Tellson’s, 
and  sat  himself  down  by  Lucie  and  her  husband  in  the 
dark  window.  It  was  a hot  wild  night,  and  they  were  all 
three  reminded  of  the  old -Sunday  night  when  they  had 
looked  at  the  lightning  from  the  same  place. 

“ I began  to  think,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pushing  his  brown 
Wig  back,  “ that  I should  have  to  pass  the  night  at  Tell- 
son’s.  We  have  been  so  full  of  business  all  day,  that  we 
. have  not  known  what  to  do  first,  or  which  way  to  turn. 
There  is  such  an  uneasiness  in  Paris,  that  we  have  actu 
ally  a run  of  confidence  upon  us  ! Our  customers  over 
there,  seem  not  to  be  able  to  confide  their  property  to  us 
fast  enough.  There  is  positively  a mania  among  some  of 
them  for  sending  it  to  England.  ” 

“ That  has  a bad  look,”  said  Darnay. 

" A bad  look,  you  say,  my  dear  Darnay  ? Yes,  but  we 
don’t  know  what  reason  there  is  in  it.  People  are  so  un- 
reasonable ! Some  of  us  at  Tellson’s  are  getting  old,  and 
we  really  can’t  be  troubled  out  of  the  ordinary  course 
without  due  occasion.” 

"Still,”  said  Darnay,  "you  know  how  gloomy  and 
threatening  the  sky  is.” 

" I know  that,  to  be  sure,”  assented  Mr.  Lorry,  trying 
to  persuade  himself  that  his  sweet  temper  was  soured, 
and  that  he  grumbled,  " but  I am  determined  to  be  peev- 
ish after  my  long  day’s  botheration.  Where  is  Ma- 
nette  ? ” 

" Here  he  is  ! ” said  the  Doctor,  entering  the  dark  room 
at  the  moment. 

“ I am  quite  glad  you  are  at  home  ; for  these  hurries 
and  forebodings  by  which  I have  been  surrounded  all 
day  long,  have  made  me  nervous  without  reason.  You 
are  not  going  out,  I hope  ? ” 

" No  ; I am  going  to  play  backgammon  with  you,  if  you 
like,”  said  the  Doctor. 

s<  1 don’t  think  I do  like,  if  I may  speak  my  mind.  I 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


189 


am  not  fit  to  be  pitted  against  you  to-night.  Is  the  tea, 
board  still  there,  Lucie?  I can't  see.” 

“ Of  course,  ifc  has  been  kept  for  you.” 

**  Thank  ye,  my  dear.  The  precious  child  is  safe  in 
bed?” 

“ And  sleeping  soundly.” 

e‘  That’s  right ; all  safe  and  well  ! I don't  know  why 
anything  should  be  otherwise  than  safe  and  well  here, 
thank  God  ; but  I have  been  so  put  out  all  day,  and  I am 
not  as  young  as  I was  ! My  tea,  my  dear  ? Thank  ye. 
Now,  come  and  take  your  place  in  the  circle,  and  let  us 
sit  quiet,  and  hear  the  echoes  about  which  you  have  your 
theory.” 

“ Not  a theory  ; it  was  a fancy.” 

“A  fancy,  then,  my  wise  pet,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  patting 
her  hand.  “ They  are  very  numerous  and  very  loud, 
though,  are  they  not  ? Only  hear  them  ! ” 

Headlong  mad  and  dangerous  footsteps  to  force  their 
way  into  anybody’s  life,  footsteps  not  easily  made  clean 
again  if  once  stained  red,  the  footsteps  raging  in  Saint 
Antoine  afar  off,  as  the  little  circle  sat  in  the  dark  Lon- 
don window. 

Saint  Antoine  had  been,  that  morning,  a vast  dusky 
mass  of  scarecrows  heaving  to  and  fro,  with  frequent 
gleams  of  light  above  the  billowy  heads,  where  steel 
blades  and  bayonets  shone  in  the  sun.  A tremendous 
roar  arose  from  the  throat  of  Saint  Antoine,  and  a forest 
of  naked  arms  struggled  in  the  air  like  shrivelled  branches 
of  trees  in  a winter  wind  : all  the  fingers  convulsively 
clutching  at  every  weapon  or  semblance  of  a weapon  that 
was  thrown  up  from  the  depths  below,  no  matter  how  far 
off. 

Who  gave  them  out,  whence  they  last  came,  where 
they  began,  through  what  agency  they  crookedly  quiv- 
ered and  jerked,  scores  at  a time,  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  like  a kind  of  lightning,  no  eye  in  the  throng  could 
have  t d ; but,  muskets  were  being  distributed- — so  were 
cartridges,  powder,  and  ball,  bars  of  iron  and  wood, 
knives,  axes,  pikes,  every  weapon  that  distracted  inge- 
nuity could  discover  or  devise.  People  who  could  lay 
hold  of  nothing  else,  set  themselves  with  bleeding  hands 
to  force  stones  and  bricks  out  of  their  places  in  walls. 
Every  pulse  and  heart  in  Saint  Antoine  was  on  high-fever 
strain  and  at  high-fever  heat.  Every  living  creatur# 
there  eld  life  as  of  no  account,  and  was  demented  with 
a passionate  readiness  to  sacrifice  it. 

As  a whirlpool  of  boiling  waters  as  a centre  point,  so, 
all  this  raging  circled  round  Defarge’s  wine-shop,  and 
every  human  drop  in  the  caldron  had  a tendency  to  be 
fcucked  towards  the  vortex  where  Defarge  himself,  aL 


190 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ready  begrimed  with  gunpowder  and  sweat,  issued  or. 
ders,  issued  arms,  thrust  this  man  back,  dragged  this 
man  forward,  disarmed  one  to  arm  another,  laboured  and 
strove  in  the  thickest  of  the  uproar. 

“ Keep  near  to  me,  Jacques  Three,”  cried  Defarge  ; 
“and  do  you,  Jacques  One  and  Two,  separate  and  put 
yourselves  at  the  head  of  as  many  of  these  patriots  as 
you  can.  Where  is  my  wife  ? ” 

“Eh,  well  ! Here  you  see  me  ! ” said  madame,  com- 
posed as  ever,  but  not  knitting  to-day.  Madam  e’s  reso- 
lute right  hand  was  occupied  with  an  axe,  in  place  of 
the  usual  softer  implements,  and  in  her  girdle  were  a 
pistol  and  a cruel  knive. 

“ Where  do  you  go,  my  wife  ? ” 

“ I go,”  said  madame,  “ with  you,  at  present.  You 
shall  seejne  at  the  head  of  women,  by-and-by.” 

“Come,  then  !”  cried  Defarge,  in  a resounding  voice. 
“ Patriots  and  friends,  we  are  ready  ! The  Bastille  ! ” 

With  a roar  that  sounded  as  if  all  the  breath  in  France 
had  been  shaped  into  the  detested  word,  the  living  sea 
rose,  wave  on  wave,  depth  on  depth,  and  overflowed  the 
city  to  that  point.  Alarm-bells  ringing,  drums  beating, 
the  sea  raging  and  thundering  on  its  new  beach,  the  at- 
tack begun. 

Deep  ditches,  double  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls, 
eight  great  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke. 
Through  the  fire  and  through  the  smoke — in  the  fire  and 
in  the  smoke,  for  the  sea  cast  him  up  against  a cannon, 
and  on  the  instant  he  became  a cannonier — Defarge  of 
the  wine-shop  wrorked  like  a manful  soldier,  Two  fierce 
hours. 

Deep  ditch,  single  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls, 
eight  great  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoket 
One  drawbridge  down  ! “ Work,  comrades  all,  work  I 

Work,  Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  One  Thou- 
sand, Jacques  Two  Thousand,  Jacques  Five-and-Twenty 
Thousand  ; in  the  name  of  all  the  angels  or  the  devils — 
which  you  prefer — work  ! ” Thus  Defarge  of  the  wine 
shop,  still  at  his  gun,  which  had  long  grown  hot. 

“ To  me,  women  !”  cried  madame  his  wife.  “ What' 
We  can  kill  as  well  as  the  men  when  the  place  is 
taken  ! ” And  to  her,  with  a shrill  thirsty  cry,  trooping 
women  variously  armed,  but  all  armed  alike  in  hunger 
and  revenge. 

Cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke  ; but,  still  the  deep 
ditch,  the  single  drawbridge,  the  massive  stone  walls 
and  the  eight  great  towers.  Slight  displacements  of  the 
raging  sea,  made  by  the  falling  wounded.  Flashing 
weapons,  blazing  torches,  smoking  w agon-loads  of  wTet 
straw,  hard  work  at  neighbouring  barricades  in  all  di 
rections,  shrieks,  volleys,  execrations,  bravery  without 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


191 


stint,  boom  smash  and  rattle,  and  the  furious  sounding  of 
the  living  sea  ; but,  still  the  deep  ditch,  and  the  single 
drawbridge,  and  the  massive  stone  walls,  and  the  eight 
great  towers,  and  still  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  at  his 
gun,  grown  doubly  hot  by  the  service  of  Four  fierce  hours. 

A white  flag  from  within  the  fortress,  and  a parley — 
this  dimly  perceptible  through  the  raging  storm,  nothing 
audible  in  it — suddenly  the  sea  rose  immeasurably 
wider  and  higher,  and  swept  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop 
over  the  lowered  drawbridge,  past  the  massive  stone 
outer  walls,  in  among  the  eight  great  towers  surren- 
dered f. 

So  resistless  was  the  force  of  the  ocean  bearing  him 
on,  that  even  to  draw  his  breath  or  turn  his  head  was  as 
impracticable  as  if  he  had  been  struggling  in  the  surf  of 
the  South  Sea,  until  he  was  landed  in  the  outer  court- 
yard of  the  Bastille.  There,  against  an  angle  of  a wall, 
he  made  a struggle  to  look  about  him.  Jacques  Three 
was  nearly  at  his  side ; Madame  Defarge  still  heading 
some  of  her  women,  was  visible  in  the  inner  distance, 
and  her  knife  was  in  her  hand.  Everywhere  was  tu- 
mult, exultation,  deafening  and  maniacal  bewilderment, 
astounding  noise,  yet  furious  duxnbshow. 

“ The  Prisoners  !” 

“ The  Records?” 

“ The  secret  cells  !” 

“The  instruments  of  torture  f ” 

“ The  Prisoners  f ” 

Of  all  these  cries,  and  ten  thousand  incoherencies, 
“ The  Prisoners  ! ” was  the  cry  most  taken  up  by  the 
sea  that  rushed  in,  as  if  there  were  an  eternity  of  peo- 
ple, as  well  as  of  time  and  space.  When  the  foremost  bil- 
lows rolled  past,  bearing  the  prison  officers  with  them, 
and  threatening  them  all  with  instant  death  if  any  secret 
nook  remained  undisclosed,  Defarge  laid  his  strong  hand 
on  the  breast  of  one  these  men— a man  with  a grey  head 
who  had  a lighted  torch  in  his  hand — separated  him 
from  the  rest,  and  got  him  between  himself  and  the 
wall. 

“ Show  me  the  North  Tower  ! 99  said  Defarge. 
“ Quick  ! ” 

“I  will  faithfully,”  replied  the  man,  “ if  you  will 
come  with  me.  But  there  is  no  one  there.” 

“What  is  the  meaning  of  One  Hundred  and  Five, 
North  Tower?”  asked  Defarge.  “ Quick  !” 

“ The  meaning,  monsieur?” 

“ Does  it  mean  a captive,  or  a place  of  captivity  ? Or 
do  you  mean  that  I shall  strike  you  dead  ? ” 

“ Kill  him  !”  croaked  Jacques  Three,  who  had  come 
close  up. 

“ Monsieur,  it  is  a cell.” 


192 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Show  it  me  ! 99 

“Pass  this  way,  then.” 

Jacques  Three.,  with  his  usual  craving  on  him,  and 
evidently  disappointed  by  the  dialogue  taking  a turn 
that  did  not  seem  to  promise  bloodshed,  held  by  De- 
farge’s  arm  as  he  held  by  the  turnkey’s.  Their  three 
heads  had  been  close  together  during  this  brief  dis- 
course, and  it  had  been  as  much  as  they  could  do  to  hear 
one  another,  even  then  : so  tremendous  was  the  noise  of 
the  living  ocean,  in  its  irruption  into  the  Fortress,  and 
its  inundation  of  the  courts  and  passages  and  staircases. 
All  around,  outside,  too,  it  beat  the  walls  with  a deep, 
hoarse  roar,  from  which,  occasionally,  some  partial 
shouts  of  tumult  broke  and  leaped  into  the  air  like 
spray. 

Through  gloomy  vaults  where  the  light  of  day  had 
never  shone,  past  hideous  doors  of  dark  dens  and  cages, 
down  cavernous  flights  of  steps,  and  again  up  steep  rug- 
ged ascents  of  stone  and  brick,  more  like  dry  waterfalls 
than  staircases,  Defarge,  the  turnkey,  and  Jacques  Three, 
linked  hand  and  arm,  went  with  all  the  speed  they 
could  make.  Here  and  there,  especially  at  first,  the  in- 
undation started  on  them  and  swept  by  ; but  when  they 
had  done  descending,  and  were  winding  and  climbing  up 
a tower,  they  were  alone.  Hemmed  in  here  by  the  mass- 
ive thickness  of  walls  and  arches,  the  storm  within  the 
fortress  and  without  was  only  audible  to  them  in  a dull, 
subdued  way,  as  if  the  noise  out  of  which  they  had 
come  had  almost  destroyed  their  sense  of  hearing. 

The  turnkey  stopped  at  a low  door,  put  a key  in  a 
clashing  lock,  swung  the  door  slowly  open,  and  said,  as 
they  all  bent  their  heads  and  passed  in  : 

“ One  hundred  and  five,  North  Tower  i” 

There  was  a small  heavily-grated  unglazed  window 
high  in  the  wall,  with  a stone  screen  before  it,  so  that 
the  sky  could  be  only  seen  by  stooping  low  and  looking 
up.  There  was  a small  chimney,  heavily  barred  across, 
a few  feet  within.  There  was  a heap  of  old  feathery 
wood  ashes  on  the  hearth.  There  were  a stool,  and 
table,  and  a straw  bed.  There  were  the  four  blackened 
walls,  and  a rusted  iron  ring  in  one  of  them. 

“ Pass  that  torch  slowly  along  these  walls,  that  I may 
see  them,”  said  Defarge  to  the  turnkey. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  Defarge  followed  the  light 
closely  with  his  eyes. 

“ Stop  ! — Look  here,  Jacques  !” 

“A.  M.  1”  croaked  Jacques  Three,  as  he  read 
greedily. 

“ Alexandre  Manette,”  said  Defarge  in  his  ear,  fol- 
lowing the  letters  with  his  swart  forefinger,  deeply  en- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


193 


grained  with  gunpowder.  “ And  here  he  wrote  a poor 
physician/  And  it  was  he,  without  doubt,  who  scratched 
a calendar  on  this  stone.  What  is  that  in  your  hand  ? 
A crowbar?  Give  it  me  ! ” 

He  had  still  the  linstock  of  his  gun  in  his  own  hand. 
He  made  a sudden  exchange  of  the  two  instruments, 
and  turning  on  the  wormeaten  stool  and  table,  beat 
them  to  pieces  in  a few  blows. 

“Hold  the  light  higher  ! ” he  said  wrathfully,  to  the 
turnkey.  “ Look  among  those  fragments  with  care, 
Jacques.  And  see  ! Here  is  my  knife/'  throwing  it  to 
him  ; “rip  open  that  bed,  and  search  the  straw.  Hold 
the  light  higher,  you  ! ” 

With  a menacing  look  at  the  turnkey  he  crawled  upon 
the  hearth,  and,  peering  up  the  chimney,  struck  and 
prised  at  its  sides  with  the  crowbar,  and  worked  at  the 
iron  grating  across  it.  In  a few  minutes,  some  mortar 
and  dust  came  dropping  down,  which  he  averted  his  face 
to  avoid  ; and  in  it,  and  in  the  old  wood-ashes,  and  in  a 
crevice  in  the  chimney  into  which  his  weapon  had  slip- 
ped or  wrought  itself,  he  groped  with  a cautious  touch. 

“ Nothing  in  the  wood,  and  nothing  in  the  straw, 
Jacques  ? ” 

“ Nothing/' 

“ Let  us  collect  them  together,  in  the  middle  of  th® 
ceil.  So  ! Light  them,  you  ! " 

The  turnkey  fired  the  little  pile,  which  blazed  high 
and  hot.  Stooping  again  to  come  out  of  the  low-arched 
door,  they  left  it  burning,  and  retraced  their  way  to  the 
court-yard  : seeming  to  recover  their  sense  of  hearing  as 
they  came  down,  until  they  were  in  the  raging  flood 
once  more. 

They  found  it  surging  and  tossing,  in  quest  of  De~ 
farge  himself.  Saint  Antoine  was  clamorous  to  have  its 
wine- shop-keeper  foremost  in  the  guard  upon  the  gov- 
ernor who  had  defended  the  Bastille  and  shot  the  peo~ 
pie.  Otherwise,  the  governor  would  not  be  marched  to 
the  Hotel  de  Vilie  for  judgment.  Otherwise,  the  gov- 
ernor would  escape,  and  the  people's  blood  (suddenly  of 
some  value,  after  many  years  of  worthlessness)  be  un 
avenged. 

In  the  howling  universe  of  passion  and  contention  that 
seemed  to  encompass  this  grim  old  officer  conspicuous  in 
his  grey  coat  and  red  decoration,  there  was  but  one  quite 
steady  figure,  and  that  was  a woman's.  “ See.  there  is 
my  husband  ! " she  cried,  pointing  him  out.  ‘ 4 See  De- 
farge  ! ” She  stood  immovable  close  to  the  grim  old  of- 
ficer, and  remained  immovable  close  to  him  ; remained 
immovable  close  to  him  through  the  streets,  as  Defarge 
and  the  rest  bore  him  along  ; remained  immovable  close 
to  him  when  he  was  got  negr  his  destination,  and  began 
-T  VOL.  11 


194 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  be  struck  at  from  behind  ; remained  immovable  close 
to  him  when  the  long-gathering  rain  of  stabs  and  blows 
fell  heavy ; was  so  close  to  him  when  he  dropped  dead 
under  it,  that,  suddenly  animated,  she  put  her  foot  upon 
his  neck,  and  with  her  cruel  knife — long  ready — hewed 
off  his  head 

The  hour  was  come,  when  St.  Antoine  was  to  execute 
his  horrible  idea  of  hoisting  up  men  for  lamps  to  show 
what  he  could  be  and  do.  Saint  Antoine’s  blood  was  up, 
and  the  blood  of  tyranny  and  domination  by  the  iron 
hand  was  down — down  on  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de 
Ville  where  the  governor’s  body  lay — down  on  the  sole 
of  the  shoe  of  Madame  Defarge  where  she  had  trodden 
on  the  body  to  steady  it  for  mutilation.  “ Lower  the 
lamp  yonder  ! ” cried  Saint-  Antoine,  after  glaring  round 
for  a new  means  of  death  : “ here  is  one  of  the  soldiers 
to  be  left  on  guard  ! ” The  swinging  sentinel  was  post- 
ed, and  the  sea  rushed  on. 

The  sea  of  black  and  threatening  waters,  and  of  de- 
structive upheaving  of  wave  against  wave,  whose 
depths  were  yet  unfathomed  and  whose  forces  were  yet 
unknown.  The  remorseless  sea  of  turbulentiy  swaying 
shapes,  voices  of  vengeance,  and  faces  hardened  in-  the 
furnaces  of  suitering  until  the  touch  of  pity  could  make 
no  mark  on  them. 

But,  in  the  ocean  of  faces  where  every  fierce  and  furi- 
ous expression  was  in  vivid  life,  there  were  two  groups  of 
faces — each  seven  in  number— -so  fixedly  contrasting  with 
the  rest,  that  never  did  sea  roll  which  bore  more  memor- 
able wrecks  with  it.  Seven  faces  of  prisoners,  suddenly 
released  by  the  storm  that  had  burst  their  tomb,  were 
carried  high  over  head  : all  scared,  all  lost,  all  wonder- 
ing and  amazed,  as  if  the  Last  Day  were  come,  and 
those  who  rejoiced  around  them  were  lost-  spirits.  Other 
seven  faces  there  were,  carried  higher,  seven  dead  faces, 
whose  drooping  eyelids  and  half-seen  eyes  awaited  the 
Last  Day.  Impassive  faces,  yet  with  a suspended — not 
an  abolished — expression  on  them;  faces,  rather,  in  a 
fearful  pause,  as  having  yet  to  raise  the  dropped  lids  of 
the  eyes,  and  bear  witness  with  the  bloodless  lips, 
“ Thou  didst  it  ! ” 

Seven  prisoners  released,  seven  gory  heads  on  "pikes, 
the  keys  of  the  accursed  fortress  of  the  eight  strong 
towers,  some  discovered  letters  and  other  memorials  of 
prisoners  of  old  time,  long  dead  of  broken  hearts,— 
such,  and  such-like,  the  loudly  echoing  footsteps  of 
Saint  Antoine  escort  through  the  Paris  streets  in  mid 
July,  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty-nine. 
Now,  Heaven  defeat  the  fancy  of  Lucie  Darnay,  and 
keep  these  feet  far  out  of  her  life  ! For,  they  are  head 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


195 


long,  mad,  and  dangerous  ; and  in  the  years  so  long 
after  the  breaking  of  the  cask  at  Defarge’s  wine-shop 
door,  they  are  not  easily  purified  when  once  stained  red. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  Sea  Still  Rises . 

Haggard  Saint  Antoine  had  had  only  one  exultant- 
week,  in  which  to  soften  his  modicum  of  hard  and  bit- 
ter bread  to  such  extent  as  he  could,  with  the  relish  of 
fraternal  embraces  and  congratulations,  when  Madame 
Defarge  sat  at  at  her  counter,  as  usual,  presiding  over 
the  customers.  Madame  Defarge  wore  no  rose  in  her 
head,  for  the  great  brotherhood  of  Spies,  had  become, 
even  in  one  short  week,  extremely  chary  of  trusting 
themselves  to  the  saint’s  mercies.  The  lamps  across 
his  streets  had  a portentously  elastic  swing  with  them. 

Madame  Defarge,  with  her  arms  folded,  sat  in  the 
morning  light  and  heat,  contemplating  the  wine-shop  and 
the  street.  In  both,  were  several  knots  of  loungers, 
squalid  and  miserable,  but  now  with  a manifest  sense  of 
power  enthroned  on  their  distress.  The  raggedest  night- 
cap, awry  on  the  wretchedest  head,  had  this  crooked 
significance  in  it : “ I know  how  hard  it  has  grown 
for  me,  the  wearer  of  this,  to  support  life  in  myself  ; 
but  do  you  know  how  easy  it  has  grown  for  me,  the  wearer 
of  this,  to  destroy  life  in  you  ? ” Every  lean  bare  arm, 
that  had  been  without  work  before,  had  this  work  al- 
ways ready  for  it  now,  that  it  could  strike.  The  fingers 
of  the  knitting  women  were  vicious,  with  the  experience 
that  they  could  tear.  There  was  a change  in  the  appear- 
ance of  Saint  Antoine  ; the  image  had  been  hammering 
into  this  for  hundreds  of  years,  and  the  last  finishing 
blows  had  told  mightly  on  the  expression. 

Madame  Defarge  sat  observing  it,  with  such  suppressed 
approval  as  was  to  be  desired  in  the  leader  of  the  Saint 
Antoine  women.  One  of  her  sisterhood  knitted  beside 
her.  Ti  e short,  rather  plump  wife  of  a starved  grocer, 
and  the;  mother  of  two  children  withal,  this  lieutenant 
had  already  earned  the  complimentary  name  of  The 
Vengeance. 

“ Hark  1 ” said  The  Vengeance.  4 4 Listen,  then  ! Who 
comes  ? ” 

As  if  a train  of  powder  laid  from  the  outermost  hound 
of  the  Saint  Antoine  Quarter  to  the  wine -shop  door,  had 
been  suddenly  fired,  a fast-spreading  murmur  came  rush- 
ing along. 


196 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ It  is  Befarge,”  said  madame.  “ Silence,  patriots  !a 

Befarge  came  io.  breathless,  pulled  off  a red  cap  h© 
wore,  and  looked  around  him  ! “ Listen,  everywhere  !*' 

said  madame  again  ! “ Listen  to  him  !”  Befarge  stood, 

panting,  against  a background  of  eager  eyes  and  open 
mouths,  formed  outside  the  door ; all  those  within  the 
wine-shop,  had  sprung  to  their  feet. 

“ Say  then,  my  husband.  What  is  it  ? '* 

“ News  from  the  other  world  ! 99 

“ How,  then  ? ” cried  madame,  contemptuously.  “ The 
other  world  ? 99 

‘•'Does  everybody  here  recal  old  Foulon  who  told  the 
famished  people  that  they  might  eat  grass,  and  who  died, 
and  went  to  Hell  ? ” 

“ Everybody  ! ” from  all  throats. 

“ The  news  is  of  him.  He  is  among  us  ! 99 

“ Among  us  ! 99  from  the  universal  throat  again.  ts  And 
dead  ? ” 

“Not  dead  ! He  feared  us  so  much — and  with  reason 
—that  he  caused  himself  to  be  represented  as  dead,  and 
had  a grand  mock-funeral.  But  they  have  found  him 
alive,  hiding  in  the  country,  and  have  brought  him  in. 
I have  seen  him  but  now,  on  his  way  to  the  Hotel  Be 
Ville,  a prisoner.  I have  said  that  he  had  reason  to  fear 
us.  Say  all  ! Had  he  reason  ? ” 

Wretched  old  sinner  of  more  than  threescore  years 
and  ten,  if  he  had  never  known  it  yet,  he  would  have 
known  it  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  if  he  could  have  heard  the 
answering  cry. 

A moment  of  profound  silence  followed.  Befarge  and 
his  wife  looked  steadfastly  at  one  another.  The  Ven- 
geance stooped,  and  the  jar  of  a drum  was  heard  as  she 
moved  it  at  her  feet  behind  the  counter. 

“ Patriots  ! ” said  Befarge,  in  a determined  voice,  “ are 
we  ready  ? ” 

Instantly  Madame  Befarge’s  knife  was  in  her  girdle ; 
the  drum  was  beating  in  the  streets,  as  if  it  and  a drum- 
mer had  flown  together  by  magic  ; and  The  Vengeance, 
uttering  terrific  shrieks,  and  flinging  her  arms  about  her 
head  like  all  the  forty  Furies  at  once,,  was  tearing  from 
house  to  house,  rousing  the  women. 

The  men  were  terrible,  in  the  bloody-minded  anger 
with  which  they  looked  from  windows,  caught  up  what 
arms  they  had,  and  came  pouring  down  into  the  streets : 
but,  the  women  were  a sight  to  chill  the  boldest.  From 
such  household  occupations  as  their  bare  poverty  yielded, 
from  their  children,  from  their  aged  and  their  sick  crouch- 
ing on  the  bare  ground  famished  ana  naked,  they  ran 
out  with  streaming  hair,  urging  one  another,  and  them- 
selves, to  madness  with  the  wildest  cries  and  actions.  Vil- 
lain Foulon  taken,  my  sister  ! Old  Foulon  taken,  my 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


1S7 


mother  ] Miscreant  Foulon  taken,  my  daughter  ! Then 
a score  of  others  ran  into  the  midst  of  these,  beating  their 
breasts,  tearing  their  hair,  and  screaming,  Foulon  alive  ! 
Foulon  who  told  the  starving  people  they  might  eat 
grass  ! Foulon  who  told  my  old  father  that  he  might 
eat  grass,  when  I had  no  bread  to  give  him  ! Foulon 
Who  told  my  baby  it  might  suck  .grass,  when  these  breasts 
were  dry  with  want  l 0 mother  of  God,  this  Foulon  I 
O Heaven,  our  suffering  I Hear  me,  my  dead  baby  and 
my  withered  father  : 1 swear  on  my  knees,  on  these  stones, 
to  avenge  you  on  Foulon  ! Husbands,  and  brothers,  and 
young  men,  Give  us  the  blood  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  head 
of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  heart  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  body 
and  soul  of  Foulon,  Rend  Foulon  to  pieces,  and  dig  him 
into  the  ground,  that  grass  may  grow  from  him  ! With 
these  cries,  numbers  of  the  women,  lashed  into  blind 
frenzy,  whirled  about,  striking  and  tearing  at  their  own 
friends  until  they  dropped  in  a passionate  swoon,  and 
were  only  saved  by  the  men  belonging  to  them  from  be- 
ing trampled  under  foot. 

Nevertheless,  not  a moment  was  lost ; not  a moment  ? 
This  Foulon  was  at  the  Hdtel  De  Ville,  and  might  be 
loosed.  Never,  if  Saint  Antoine  knew  his  own  suffer- 
ings, insults,  and  wrongs  ! Armed  men  and  women 
flocked  out  of  the  Quarter  so  fast,  and  drew  even  these 
last  dregs  after  them  with  such  a force  of  suction,  that 
within  a quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  not  a human  crea- 
ture in  Saint  Antoine's  bosom  but  a few  old  crones  and 
the  wailing  children. 

No.  They  were  all  by  that  time  choking  the  Hall  of 
examination  where  this  old  man,  ugly  and  wicked,  was, 
and  overflowing  into  the  adjacent  open  space  and  streets. 
The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  The  Vengeance,  and 
Jacques  Three,  were  in  the  first  press,  and  at  no  ; ^eat 
distance  from  him  in  the  Hall. 

“ See  ! ” cried  madame,  pointing  with  her  knife.  “ See 
the  old  villain  bound  with  ropes.  That  was  well  done  to 
tie  a bunch  of  grass  upon  his  back.  Ha,  ha  ! That  was 
well  done.  Let  him  eat  it  now  ! ” Madame  put  her  knif8 
under  her  arm,  and  clapped  her  hands  as  at  a play. 

The  people  immediately  behind  Madame  Defarge, 
explaining  the  cause  of  her  satisfaction  to  those  behind 
them,  and  those  again  explaining  to  others,  and  those  to 
others,  the  neighbouring  streets  resounded  with  the  clap- 
ping of  hands.  Similarly,  during  two  or  three  hours  of 
drawl,  and  the  winnowing  of  many  bushels  of  words, 
Madame  Defarge’s  frequent  expressions  of  impatience 
were  taken  up,  with  marvellous  quickness,  at  a distance ; 
the  more  readily,  because  certain  men  who  had  by  some 
wonderful  exercise  of  agility  climbed  up  the  external 
architecture  to  look  in  from  the  windows,  knew  Madame 


198 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Defarge  well,  and  acted  as  a telegraph  between  her  and 
the  crowd  outside  the  building. 

At  length,  the  sun  rose  so  high  that  it  struck  a kindly 
ray,  as  of  hope  or  protection,  directly  down  upon  the  old 
prisoner's  head.  The  favour  was  too  much  to  bear ; in 
an  instant  the  barrier  of  dust  and  chaff  that  had  stood 
surprisingly  long,  went  to  the  winds,  and  Saint  Antoine 
had  got  him  ! 

It  was  known  directly,  to  the  furthest  confines  of  the 
crowd.  Defarge  had  but  sprung  over  a railing  and  a 
table,  and  folded  the  miserable  wretch  in  a deadly  em- 
brace— Madame  Defarge  had  but  followed  and  turned 
her  hand  in  one  of  the  ropes  with  which  he  was  tied — 
The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  were  not  yet  up  with 
them,  and  the  men  at  the  windows  had  not  yet  swooped 
into  the  Hall,  like  birds  of  prey  from  their  high  perches 
— when  the  cry  seemed  to  go  up,  all  over  the  city, 
“ Bring-  him  out  I Bring  him  to  the  lamp  ! ” 

Down,  and  up,  and  head  foremost  on  the  steps  of  the 
building  ; now,  on  his  knees  ; now,  on  his  feet ; now, 
on  his  back  ; dragged,  and  struck  at,  and  stifled  by  the 
bunches  of  grass  and  straw  that  were  thrust  into  his  face 
by  hundreds  of  hands  ; torn,  bruised,  panting,  bleeding, 
yet  always  entreating  and  beseeching  for  mercy  ; now, 
full  of  vehement  agony  of  action,  with  a small  clear 
space  about  him  as  the  people  drew-  one  another  back 
that  they  might  see  ; now,  a log  of  dead  wood  drawn 
through  a forest  of  legs  ; he  was  hauled  to  the  nearest 
street  corner  where  one  of  the  fatal  lamps  swung,  and 
there  Madame  Defarge  let  him  go — as  a cat  might  have 
done  to  a mouse — and  silently  and  composedly  looked  at 
him  while  they  made  ready,  and  while  he  besought  her  : 
the  women  passionately  screeching  at  him  all  the  time, 
and  the  men  sternly  calling  out  to  have  him  killed 
with  grass  in  his  mouth.  Once,  he  went  aloft,  and  the 
»ope  broke,  and  they  caught  him  shrieking  ; twice,  he 
went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him 
Bhrieking ; then  the  rope  was  merciful  and  held  him, 
andhis  head"  was  soon  upon  a pike,  with  grass  enough  in 
the  mouth  for  all  Saint  Antoine  to  dance  at  the  sight  of. 

Nor  was  this  the  end  of  the  day's  bad  work,  for  Saint 
Antoine  so  shouted  and  danced  his  angry  blood  up,  that 
it  boiled  again,  on  hearing  when  the  day  closed  in  that 
the  son-in-law  of  the  despatched,  another  of  the  people's 
enemies  and  insulters,  was  coming  into  Paris  under  a 
guard  five  hundred  strong,  in  cavalry  alone.  Saint  An 
toine  wrote  his  crimes  on  flaring  sheets  of  paper,  seized 
him — would  have  torn  him  out  of  the  breast  of  an  army 
to  bear  Foulon  company — set  his  head  and  heart  on 
pikes,  and  carried  the  three  spoils  of  the  day,  in  Wolf- 
procession  through  the  streets. 


, AND  STRUCK  AT,  AND  STIFLED  BY  THE  BUNCHES  OF  GRASS  THAT  WERE  THRUST  INTO  HIS  FACE. 

—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  199. 


200  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Not  before  dark  night  did  the  men  and  women  come 
back  to  the  children,  wailing  and  breadless.  Then,  the 
miserable  bakers’  shops  were  beset  by  long  files  of  them 
patiently  waiting  to  buy  bad  bread  ; and  while  they 
waited  with  stomachs  faint  and  empty,  they  beguiled  the 
time  by  embracing  one  another  on  the  triumphs  of  the 
day,  and  achieving  them  again  in  gossip.  Gradually, 
these  strings  of  ragged  people  shortened  and  frayed 
away  ; and  then  poor  lights  began  to  shine  in  high  win- 
dows, and  slender  fires  were  made  in  the  streets,  at 
which  neighbours  cooked  in  common,  afterwards  sup- 
ping at  their  doors. 

Scanty  and  insufficient  suppers  those,  and  innocent  of 
meat,  as  of  most  other  sauce  to  wretched  bread.  Yet, 
human  fellowship  infused  some  nourishment  into  the 
flinty  viands,  and  struck  some  sparks  of  cheerfulness  out 
of  them.  Fathers  and  mothers  who  had  had  their  full 
share  in  the  worst  of  the  day,  played  gently  with  their 
meagre  children ; and  lovers,  with  such  a world  around 
them  and  before  them,  loved  and  hoped. 

It  was  almost  morning,  when  Defarge’s  wine-shop 
parted  wdth  its  last  knot  of  customers,  and  Monsieur 
Defarge  said  to  madame  his  wife,  in  husky  tones,  while 
fastening  the  door : 

“ At  last  it  is  come,  my  dear  ! ” 

“Eh  well  ! ” returned  madame.  “ Almost.” 

Saint  Antoine  slept,  the  Defarges  slept  ; even  the 
Vengeance  slept  with  her  starved  grocer,  and  the  drum 
was  at  rest.  The  drum’s  was  the  only  voice  in  Saint  An- 
toine, that  blood  and  hurry  had  not  changed.  The  Ven- 
geance, as  custodian  of  the  drum,  could  have  wakened 
him  up  and  had  the  same  speech  out  of  him  as  before 
the  Bastille  fell,  or  old  Foulon  was  seized ; not  so  with 
the  hoarse  tones  of  the  men  and  women  in  Saint  An- 
toine’s  bosom. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Fire  Rises. 

There  was  a change  on  the  village  where  the  fountain 
fell,  and  where  the  mender  of  roads  went  forth  daily  to 
hammer  out  of  the  stones  of  the  highway  such  morsels 
of  bread  as  might  serve  for  patches  to  hold  his  poor  igno- 
rant soul  and  his  poor  reduced  body,  together.  The 
prison  on  the  crag  was  not  so  dominant  as  of  yore  ; there 
were  soldiers  to  guard  it,  but  not  many  ; there  were  offi- 
cers to  guard  the  soldiers,  but  not  one  of  them  knew 
what  his  men  would  do — beyond  this  : that  it  would 
probably  not  be  what  lie  was  ordered. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


201 


Far  and  wide,  lay  a ruined  country,  yielding  nothing 
but  desolation.  Every  green  leaf,  every  blade  of  grass 
and  blade  of  grain,  was  as  shrivelled  and  poor  as  the 
miserable  people.  Everything  was  bowed  down,  de- 
jected, oppressed,  and  broken.  Habitations,  fences, 
domesticated  animals,  men,  women,  and  children,  and 
the  soil  that  bore  them — all  worn  out. 

Monseigneur  (often  a most  worthy  individual  gentle- 
man) was  a national  blessing,  gave  a chivalrous  tone  to 
things,  was  a polite  example  to  luxurious  and  shining 
life,  and  a great  deal  more  to  the  equal  purpose  ; never- 
theless, Monseigneur  as  a class  had,  somehow  or  other, 
brought  things  to  this.  Strange  that  Creation,  designed 
expressly  for  Monseigneur,  should  be  so  wrung  dry  and 
squeezed  out  ! There  must  be  something  short-sighted 
in  the  eternal  arrangements,  surely  ! Thus  it  was,  how- 
ever ; and  the  last  drop  of  blood  having  been  extracted 
from  the  dints,  and  the  last  screw  of  the  rack  having 
Seen  turned'  so  often  that  its  purchase  crumbled,  and 
how  turned  and  turned  and  turned  with  nothing  to  bite, 
Monseigneur  began  to  run  away  from  a phenomenon  so 
low  and  unaccountable. 

But,  this  was  not  the  change  on  the  village,  and  oq 
many  a village  like  it.  For  scores  of  years  gone  by, 
Monseigneur  had  squeezed  it  and  wrung  it,  and  had 
seldom  graced  it  with  his  presence  except  for  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  chase — now,  found  in  hunting  the  people  ; 
now,  found  in  hunting  the  beasts,  for  whose  preservation 
Monseigneur  made  edifying  spaces  of  barbarous  and  bar- 
ren wilderness.  No.  The  change  consisted  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  strange  faces  of  low  caste,  rather  than  in  the 
disappearance  of  the  high-caste,  chiselled,  and  otherwise 
beatified  and  beatifying  features  of  Monseigneur. 

For,  in  these  times,  as  the  mender  of  roads  worked, 
solitary  in  the  dust,  not  often  troubling  himself  to  reflect 
that  dust  he  was  and  to  dust  he  must  return — being  for 
the  most  part  too  much  occupied  in  thinking  how  little 
he  had  for  supper  and  how  much  more  he  would  eat  if 
he  had  it — in  these  times,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  from  his 
lonely  labour  and  viewed  the  prospect,  he  would  see  some 
rough  figure  approaching  on  foot,  the  like  of  which  was 
once  a rarity  in  those  parts,  but  was  now  a frequent  pres- 
ence. As  it  advanced,  the  mender  of  roads  would  discern 
without  surprise  that  it  was  a shaggy-haired  man,  of  al- 
most barbarian  aspect,  tall,  in  wooden  shoes  that  were 
clumsy  even  to  the  eyes  of  a mender  of  roads,grim,  rough, 
swart,  steeped  in  the  mud  and  dust  of  many  highways, 
dank  with  the  marshy  moisture  of  many  low  grounds, 
sprinkled  with  the  thorns  and  leaves  and  moss  of  many 
byways  through  woods. 

Such  a man  came  upon  him,  like  a ghost,  at  noon  in 


m 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  July  weather,  as  he  sat  on  his  heap  of  stones  unde? 
a bank,  taking  such  shelter  as  he  could  get  from  a shower 
of  hail. 

The  man  looked  at  him,  looked  at  the  village  in  the 
hollow,  at  the  mill,  and  at  the  prison  on  the  crag. 
When  he  had  identified  these  objects  in  what  benighted 
mind  he  had,  he  said,  in  a dialect  that  was  just  intelli- 
gible : 

“ How  goes  it,  Jacques  ? ” 

“ All  well,  Jacques.” 

“ Touch  then  ! ” 

They  joined  hands,  and  the  man  sat  down  on  the  heap 
of  stones. 

“ No  dinner  ? ” 

“ Nothing  but  supper  now,”  said  the  mender  of  roads, 
with  a hungry  face. 

“It  is  the  fashion,”  growled  the  man.  “ I meet  no 
dinner  anywhere.” 

He  took  out  a blackened  pipe,  filled  it,  lighted  it  with 
fiint  and  steel,  pulled  at  it  until  it  was  in  a bright  glow ; 
then,  suddenly  held  it  from  him  and  dropped  some- 
thing into  it  from  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  that 
blazed  and  went  out  in  a puff  of  smoke. 

“ Touch  then.”  It  was  the  turn  of  the  mender  of  roads 
to  say  it  this  time,  after  observing  these  operations. 
They  again  joined  hands. 

“ To-night?  ” said  the  mender  of  roads. 

“To-night,”  said  the  man, putting  the  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

“Where?” 

“ Here.” 

He  and  the  mender  of  roads  sat  on  the  heap  of  stones 
looking  silently  at  one  another,  with  the  hail  driving  in 
between  them  like  a pigmy  charge  of  bayonets,  until  the 
sky  began  t®  clear  over  the  village. 

“ Show  me  ! ” said  the  traveller  then,  moving  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill. 

“ See  ! ” returned  the  mender  of  roads,  with  extended 
finger.  “You  go  down  here,  and  straight  through  the 
street,  and  past  the  fountain — ” 

“ To  the  Devil  with  all  that  ! ” interrupted  the  other, 
rolling  his  eye  over  the  landscape.  “ I go  through  no 
streets  and  past  no  fountains.  Well?” 

“Well!  About  two  leagues  beyond  the  summit  of 
that  hill  above  the  village.  ” 

“ Good.  When  do  you  cease  to  work?” 

“ At  sunset. 

“ Will  you  wake  me,  before  departing.  I have  walked 
two  nights  without  resting.  Let  me  finish  my  pipe,  and 
I shall  sleep  like  a child.  Will  you  wake  me  ?” 

“ Surely.” 

The  wayfarer  smoked  his  pipe  out,  put  it  in  his  breast, 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


203 


slipped  off  liis  great  wooden  shoes,  and  lay  down  on  his 
back  on  the  heap  of  stones.  He  was  fast  asleep  di- 
rectly. 

As  the  road-mender  plied  his  dusty  labour,  and  the 
hail-clouds,  rolling  away,  revealed  bright  bars  and 
streaks  of  sky  which  were  responded  to  by  silver  gleams 
upon  the  landscape,  the  little  man  (who  wore  a red  cap 
now,  in  place  of  his  blue  one)  seemed  fascinated  by  the 
figure  on  the  heap  of  stones.  His  eyes  were  so  often 
turned  towards  it,  that  he  used  his  tools  mechanically, 
and,  one  would  have  said,  to  very  poor  account.  The 
bronze  face,  the  shaggy  black  hair  and  beard,  the  coarse 
woolen  red  cap,  the  rough  medley  dress  of  homespun 
stuff  and  hairy  skins  of  beasts,  the  powerful  frame  at- 
tehuated  by  spare  living,  and  the  sullen  and  desperate 
compression  of  the  lips  in  sleep,  inspired  the  mender  of 
roads  with  awe.  The  traveller  had  travelled  far,  and 
his  feet  were  foot-sore,  and  his  ankles  chafed  and  bleed- 
ing ; his  great  shoes,  stuffed  with  leaves  and  grass,  had 
been  heavy  to  drag  over  the  many  long  leagues,  and  his 
clothes  were  chafed  into  holes,  as  he  himself  was  into 
sores.  Stooping  down  beside  him.  the  road-mender 
tried  to  get  a peep  at  secret  weapons  in  his  breast  or 
where  not  ; but,  in  vain,  for  he  slept  with  his  arms 
crossed  upon  him,  and  set  as  resolutely  as  his  lips.  For- 
tified towns  with  their  stockades,  guard-houses,  gates, 
trenches,  and  drawbridges,  seemed,  to  the  mender  of 
roads,  to  be  so  much  air  as  against  this  figure.  And 
when  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  it  to  the  horizon  and  looked 
around,  he  saw  in  his  small  fancy  similiar  figures,  stop- 
ped by  no  obstacle,  tending  to  centres  all  over  France. 

The  man  slept  on,  indifferent  to  showers  of  hail  and 
intervals  of  brightness,  to  sunshine  on  his  face  and 
shadow,  to  the  pattering  lumps  of  dull  ice  on  his  body 
and  the  diamonds  into  which  the  sun  changed  them,  un- 
til the  sun  was  low  in  the  west,  and  the  sky  was  glow= 
ing.  Then,  the  mender  of  roads  having  got  his  tools 
together  and  all  things  ready  to  go  down  into  the  village, 
roused  him. 

“ Good  ! ” said  the  sleeper,  rising  on  his  elbow.  <fTwo 
leagues  beyond  the  summit  of  the  hill  ? ” 

‘'About. 

“About.  Good!” 

The  mender  of  roads  went  home,  with  the  dust  going 
on  before  him  according  to  the  set  of  the  wind,  and  was 
soon  at  the  fountain,  squeezing  himself  in  among  the 
lean  kine  brought  there  to  drink,  and  appearing  even  to 
whisper  to  them  in  his  whispering  to  all  the  village. 
When  the  village  had  taken  its  poor  supper,  it  did  not 
creep  to  bed,  as  it  usually  did,  but  came  out  of  doors 


204 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


again,  and  remained  there.  A curious  contagion  of 
whispering  was  upon  it,  and  also,  when  it  gathered  to- 
gether at  the  fountain  in  the  dark,  another  curious  con- 
tagion of  looking  expectantly  at  the  sky  in  one  direction 
only.  Monsieur  Gabelle,  chief  functionary  of  the  place, 
became  uneasy  ; went  out  on  his  house-top  alone,  and 
looked  in  that  direction  too  ; glanced  down  from  behind 
his  chimneys  at  the  darkening  faces  by  the  fountain  be- 
low, and  sent  word  to  the  sacristan  who  kept  the  keys 
of  the  church,  that  there  might  be  need  to  ring  the  toc- 
sin by-and-by. 

The  night  deepened.  The  trees  environing  the  old 
chateau,  keeping  its  solitary  state  apart,  moved  in  a 
rising  wind,  as  though  they  threatened  the  pile  of  build- 
ing massive  and  dark  in  the  gloom.  Up  the  two  ter- 
race  flights  of  steps  the  rain  ran  wildly,  and  beat  at  the 
great  door,  like  a swift  messenger  rousing  those~within  , 
uneasy  rushes  of  wind  went  through  the  hall,  among 
the  old  spears  and  knives,  and  passing  lamenting  up  the 
stairs,  and  shook  the  curtains  of  the  bed  where  the  last 
Marquis  had  slept.  East,  West,  North,  and  South, 
through  the  woods,  four  heavy- treading,  unkempt  fig- 
ures crushed  the  high  grass  and  cracked  the  branches, 
striding  on  cautiously  to  come  together  in  the  court- 
yard. Four  lights  broke  out  there,  and  moved  away  in 
different  directions,  and  all  was  black  again. 

But  not  for  long.  Presently  the  Chateau  began  to 
make  itself  strangely  visible  by  some  light  of  its  own, 
as  though  it  were  growing  luminous.  Then,  a flickering 
streak  played  behind  the  architecture  of  the  front,  pick' 
ing  out  transparent  places,  and  showing  where  balus- 
trades, arches,  and  windows  were.  Then  it  soared 
higher,  and  grew  broader  and  brighter.  Soon,  from  a 
score  of  the  great  windows,  flames  burst  forth,  and  the 
stone  faces,  awakened,  stared  out  of  fire. 

A faint  murmur  arose  about  the  house  from  the  few 
people  who  were  left  there,  and  there  was  saddling  of  a 
horse  and  riding  away.  There  was  spurring  and  splash 
ing  through  the  darkness,  and  bridle  was  drawn  in  the 
space  by  the  village  fountain,  and  the  horse  in  a foam 
stood  at  Monsieur  Gabelle’s  door.  “ Help,  Gabelle  ! 
Help,  every  one  ! ” The  tocsin  rang  impatiently,  but 
other  help  (if  that  were  any)  there  was  none.  The 
mender  of  roads,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty  particular 
friends,  stood  with  folded  arms  at  the  fountain,  looking 
at  the  pillar  of  fire  in  the  sky.  “ It  must  be  forty  feet 
high,”  said  they,  grimly  ; and  never  moved. 

The  rider  from  the  chateau,  and  the  horse  in  a foam, 
clattered  away  through  the  village,  and  galloped  up  the 
stony  steep,  to  the  prison  on  the*  crag.  At  the  gate,  a 
group  of  officers  were  looking  at  the  fire  ; removed  from 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


20. 


them,  a group  of  soldiers.  “ Help,  gentlemen-officers  r 
The  chateau  is  on  fire  ; valuable  objects  may  be  saved 
from  the  flames  by  timely  aid  ! Help,  help  ! ” The  offi- 
cers looked  towards  the  soldiers  who  looked  at  the  fire  ; 
gave  no  orders  ; and  answered,  with  shrugs  and  biting 
of  lips,  “ It  must  burn.” 

As  the  rider  rattled  down  the  hill  again  and  through 
the  street,  the  village  was  illuminating.  The  mender  of 
roads,  and  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  particular  friends, 
inspired  as  one  man  and  woman  by  the  idea  of  lighting 
lip,  had  darted  into  their  houses,  and  were  putting  can- 
dles in  every  dull  little  pane  of  glass.  The  general 
scarcity  of  everything,  occasioned  candles  to  be  borrowed 
in  a rather  peremptory  manner  of  Monsieur  Gabelle  ; and 
in  a moment  of  reluctance  and  hesitation  on  that  func- 
tionary’s part,  the  mender  of  roads,  once  so  submissive 
to  authority,  had  remarked  that  carriages  were  good  to 
make  bonfires  with,  and  that  post-horses  would  roast. 

The  chateau  was  left  to  itself  to  flame  and  burn.  In 
the  roaring  and  raging  of  the  conflagration,  a red-hot 
wind,  driving  straight  from  the  infernal  regions,  seemed 
to  be  blowing  the  edifice  away.  With  the  rising  and 
falling  of  the  blaze,  the  stone  faces  showed  as  if  they 
were  in  torment.  When  great  masses  of  stone  and  tim- 
ber fell,  the  face  with  the  two  dints  in  the  nose  became 
obscured : anon  struggled  out  of  the  sjnoke  again,  as  if 
it  were  the  face  of  the  cruel  Marquis,  burning  at  the 
stake  and  contending  with  the  fire. 

The  chateau  burned  ; the  nearest  trees,  laid  hold  of 
by  the  fire,  scorched  and  shrivelled  ; trees  at  a distance, 
fired  by  the  four  fierce  figures,  begirt  the  blazing  edifice 
with  a new  forest  of  smoke.  Molten  lead  and  iron  boiled 
in  the  marble  basin  of  the  fountain  ; the  water  ran  dry  ; 
the  extinguisher  tops  of  the  towers  vanished  like  ice  be- 
fore the  heat,  and  trickled  down  into  four  rugged  wells 
of  flame.  Great  rents  and  splits  branched  out  in  the 
solid  walls,  like  crystallisation  ; stupified  birds  wheeled 
&bout,  and  dropped  into  the  furnace  ; four  fierce  figures 
trudged  away,  Bast,  West,  North,  and  South,  along  the 
night-enshrouded  roads,  guided  by  the  beacon  they  had 
lighted,  towards  their  next  destination.  The  illuminated 
village  had  seized  hold  of  the  tocsin,  and,  abolishing  the 
lawful  ringer,  rang  for  joy. 

Not  only  that ; but,  the  village,  light-headed  with 
famine,  fire  and  bell-ringing,  and  bethinking  itself  that 
Monsieur  Gabelle  had  to  do  with  the  collection  of  rent 
and  taxes — though  it  was  but  a small  instalment  of 
taxes,  and  no  rent  at  all,  that  Gabeile  had  got  in  in  those 
latter  days — became  impatient  for  an  interview  with  him, 
and,  surrounding  his  house,  summoned  him  to  come 
forth  for  personal  conference.  Whereupon,  Monsieur 


206 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Gabelle  did  heavily  bar  his  door,  and  retire  to  hold 
counsel  with  himself.  The  result  of  that  conference 
was,  that  Gabelle  again  withdrew  himself  to  his  house- 
top behind  his  stack  of  chimneys  : this  time  resolved,  if 
his  door  were  broken  in  (he  was  a small  Southern  man 
of  retaliative  temperament),  to  pitch  himself  head  fore- 
most over  the  parapet,  and  crush  a man  or  two  below. 

Probably,  Monsieur  Gabelle  passed  a long  night  up 
there,  with  the  distant  chateau  for  lire  and  candle,  and 
the  beating  at  his  door,  combined  with  the  joy-ringing, 
for  music  ; not  to  mention  his  having  an  ill-omened  lamp 
slung  across  the  road  before  his  posting-house  gate, 
which  the  village  showed  a lively  inclination  to  displace 
in  his  favour.  A trying  suspense,  to  be  passing  a whole 
summer  night  on  the  brink  of  the  black  ocean,  ready  to 
take  that  plunge  into  it  upon  which  Monsieur  Gabelle 
had  resolved  ! But,  the  friendly  dawn  appearing  at  last, 
and  the  rush- candies  of  the  village  guttering  out,  the 
people  happily  dispersed,  and  Monsieur  Gabelle  came 
down,  bringing  his  life  with  him  for  that  while. 

Within  a hundred  miles,  and  in  the  light  of  other 
fires,  there  were  other  functionaries  less  fortunate,  that 
night  and  other  nights,  whom  the  rising  sun  found 
hanging  across  once-peacefu!  streets,  where  they  had 
been  born  and  bred  ; also,  there  were  other  villagers  and 
townspeople  less  fortunate  than  the  mender  of  roads  and 
his  fellows,  upon  whom  the  functionaries  and  soldiery 
turned  with  success,  and  whom  they  strung  up  in  their 
turn.  But,  the  fierce  figures  were  steadily  wending 
East,  West,  North,  and  South,  be  that  as  it  would  ; and 
whosoever  hung,  fire  burned.  The  altitude  of  the 
gallows  that  would  turn  to  water  and  quench  it,  no  func- 
tionary, by  any  stretch  of  mathematics,  was  able  to 
calculate  successfully. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

Drawn  to  the  Loadstone  Rock. 

In  such  risings  of  fire  and  risings  of  sea— the  firm 
earth  shaken  by  the  rushes  of  an  angry  ocean  which  had 
now  no  ebb  hut  was  always  on  the  flow,  higher  and 
higher,  to  the  terror  and  wonder  of  the  beholders  on  the 
shore — three  years  of  tempest  were  consumed.  Three 
more  birthdays  of  little  Lucie  had  been  woven  by  the 
golden  thread  into  the  peaceful  tissue  of  the  life  of  her 
home. 

Many  a night  and  many  a day  had  its  inmates  listened 
to  the  echoes  in  the  corner,  with  hearts  that  failed  them 
when  they  heard  the  thronging  feet.  For,  the  footsteps 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


207 


had  become  to  their  minds  as  the  footsteps  of  a people, 
tumultuous  under  a red  flag  and  with  their  country  de- 
clared in  danger,  changed  into  wild  beasts  by  terrible 
enchantment  long  persisted  in. 

Monseigneur,  as  a class,  had  dissociated  himself  from 
the  phenomenon  of  his  not  being  appreciated  : of  his 
being  so  little  wanted  in  France,  as  to  incur  considerable 
danger  of  receiving  his  dismissal  from  it  and  this  life 
together.  Like  the  fabled  rustic  who  raised  the  Devil 
with  infinite  pains,  and  was  so  terrified  at  the  sight  of 
him  that  he  could  ask  the  Enemy  no  question,  but  imme- 
diately fied  ; so,  Monseigneur,  after  boldly  reading  the 
Lord’s  Prayer  backwards  for  a great  number  of  years, 
and  performing  many  other  potent  spells  for  compelling 
the  Evil  One,  no  sooner  beheld  him  in  his  terrors  than 
he  took  to  his  noble  heels. 

The  shining  Bull’s  Eye  of  the  Court  was  gone,  or  it 
would  have  been  the  mark  for  a hurricane  of  national 
bullets.  It  had  never  been  a good  eye  to  see  with — had 
long  had  the  mote  in  it  of  Lucifer’s  pride,  Sardanapalus’s 
luxury,  and  a mole’s  blindness — but  it  had  dropped  out 
and  was  gone.  The  Court,  from  that  exclusive  inner 
circle  to  its  outermost  rottening  of  intrigue,  corruption, 
and  dissimulation,  was  all  gone  together.  Royalty  was 
gone  ; had  been  besieged  in  its  Palace  and  “ suspended,” 
when  the  last  tidings  came  over. 

The  August  of  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  ninety-two  was  come,  and  Monseigneur  was  by  this 
time  scattered  far  and  wide. 

As  was  natural,  the  head-quarters  and  great  gathering- 
place  of  Monseigneur,  in  London,  was  Tellson’s  Bank. 
Spirits  are  supposed  to  haunt  the  places  where  their 
bodies  most  resorted,  and  Monseigneur  without  a guinea 
haunted  the  spot  where  his  guineas  used  to  be.  More- 
over, it  was  the  spot  to  which  such  French  intelligence 
as  was  most  to  be  relied  upon,  came  quickest.  Again; 
Tellson’s  was  a munificent  house,  and  extended  great 
liberality  to  old  customers  who  had  fallen  from  their 
high  estate.  Again  : those  nobles  who  had  seen  the 
coming  storm  in  time,  and,  anticipating  plunder  or  confis- 
cation, had  made  provident  remittances  to  Tellson’s,  were 
always  to  be  heard'  of  there  by  their  needy  brethren. 
To  which  it  must  be  added  that  every  new  comer  from 
France  reported  himself  and  his  tidings  at  Tellson’s, 
almost  as  a matter  of  course.  For  such  variety  of  reasons 
Tellson’s  was  at  that  time,  as  to  French  intelligence,  a 
kind  of  High  Exchange  ; and  this  was  so  well  known  to 
the  public,  and  the  inquiries  made  there  were  in  conse- 
quence so  numerous,  that  Tellson’s  sometimes  wrote  the 
latest  news  out  in  a line  or  so  and  posted  it  in  the  Bank 
windows,  for  all  who  ran  through  Temple  Bar  to  read. 


208 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


On  a steaming,  misty  afternoon,  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  his 
desk,  and  Charles  Darnay  stood  leaning  on  it,  talking 
with  him  in  a low  voice.  The  penitential  den  once  set 
apart  for  interviews  with  the  House,  was  now  the  news- 
Exchange,  and  was  filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  within 
half  an  hour  or  so  of  the  time  of  closing. 

“But,  although  you  are  the  youngest  man  that  ever 
lived,”  said  Charles  Darnay,  rather  hesitating,  “ I must 
still  suggest  to  you — ” 

“ I understand.  That  I am  too  old  ? ” said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ Unsettled  weather,  a long  journey,  uncertain  means 
of  travelling,  a disorganised  country,  a city  that  may  not 
even  be  safe  for  you.” 

“ My  dear  Charles,”  said  Mr.  Lorry  with  cheerful  con- 
fidence, “you  touch  some  of  the  reasons  for  my  going 
not  for  my  staying  away.  It  is  safe  enough  for  me 
nobody  will  care  to  interfere  with  an  old  fellow  of  hard 
upon  fourscore  when  there  are  so  many  people  there 
much  better  worth  interfering  with.  As  to  its  being  a 
disorganised  city  if  it  were  not  a disorganised  city  there 
would  be  no  occasion  to  send  somebody  from  our  House 
here  to  our  House  there,  who  knows  the  city  and  the 
business,  of  old,  and  is  in  Tellson’s  confidence.  As  to 
the  uncertain  travelling,  the  long  journey,  and  the  win- 
ter weather,  if  I were  not  prepared  to  submit  myself  to 
a few  inconveniences  for  the  sake  of  Tellson’s,  after  all 
these  years,  who  ought  to  be  ? ” 

“ I wish  I were  going  myself,”  said  Charles  Darnay, 
somewhat  restlessly,  and  like  one  thinking  aloud. 

“ Indeed  ! You  are  a pretty  fellow  to  object  and  ad- 
vise ! ” exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry.  “You  wish  you  were 
going  yourself?  And  you  a Frenchman  born  ? You  are 
a wise  counsellor.” 

“ My  dear  Mr.  Lorry,  it  is  because  I am  a Frenchman 
born,  that  the  thought  (which  I did  not  mean  to  utter 
here,  however)  has  passed  through  my  mind  often.  One 
cannot  help  thinking,  having  had  some  sympathy  for 
the  miserable  people,  and  having  abandoned  something 
to  them,”  he  spoke  here  in  his  former  thoughtful  man- 
ner, “ that  one  might  be  listened  to,  and  might  have  tho 
power  to  persuade  to  some  restraint.  Only  last  night, 
after  you  had  left  us,  when  I was  talking  to  Lucie — ” 

“ When  you  were  talking  to  Lucie,”  Mr.’  Lorry  re- 
peated. “ Yes.  I wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  men- 
tion the  name  of  Lucie  ! Wishing  you  were  going  to 
France  at  this  time  of  day  ! ” 

“ However,  I am  not  going,3*  said  Charles  Darnay, 
with  a smile.  “ It  is  more  to  the  purpose  that  you  say 
you  are.” 

“ And  I am,  in  plain  reality.  The  truth  is,  my  dear 
Charles,”  Mr#  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


209 


lowered  his  voice,  “ you  can  have  no  conception  of  the 
difficulty  with  which  our  business  is  transacted,  and  of 
the  peril  in  which  our  books  and  papers  over  yonder  are 
involved.  The  Lord  above  knows  what  the  compro- 
mising consequences  would  be  to  numbers  of  people,  if 
some  of  our  documents  were  seized  or  destroyed  ; and 
they  might  be,  at  any  time,  you  know,  for  who  can  say 
that  Paris  is  not  set  a-fire  to-day,  or  sacked  to-morrow  ! 
Now,  a judicious  selection  from  these  with  the  least  pos 
sible  delay,  and  the  burying  of  them,  or  otherwise  getting 
of  them  out  of  harm's  way,  is  within  the  power  (without 
loss  of  precious  time)  of  scarcely  any  one  but  myself,  if 
any  one.  And  shall  I hang  back,  when  Tellson’s  knows 
this  and  says  this — Tellson's,  whose  bread  I have  eaten 
these  sixty  years — because  I am  a little  stiff  about  the 
joints?  Why,  I am  a boy,  sir,  to  half  a dozen  old  codgers 
here  ! ” 

“ How  I admire  the  gallantry  of  your  youthful  spirit, 
Mr.  Lorry  ! ” 

“ Tut  ! Nonsense,  sir  ! — And,  my  dear  Charles,”  said 
Mr.  Lorry,  glancing  at  the  House  again,  “you  are  to  re- 
member, that  getting  things  out  of  Paris  at  this  present 
time,  no  matter  what  things,  is  next  to  an  impossibility. 
Papers  and  precious  matters  were  this  very  day  brought 
to  us  here  (I  speak  in  strict  confidence  ; it  is  not  business 
like  to  whisper  it,  even  to  you),  by  the  strangest  bearer- 
you  can  imagine,  every  one  of  whom  had  his  head  hangs 
ing  on  by  a single  hair  as  he  passed  the  Barriers.  At 
another  time,  our  parcels  will  come  and  go,  as  easily  as 
in  business-like  old  England  ; but  now,  everything  is 
stopped.  ” 

“And  do  you  really  go  to-night?” 

“ I really  go  to-night,  for  the  case  has  become  too 
pressing  to  admit  of  delay.” 

“ And  do  you  take  no  one  with  you?” 

“ All  sorts  of  people  have  been  proposed  to  me,  but  I 
will  have  nothing  to  say  to  any  of  them.  I intend  to 
take  Jerry.  Jerry  has  been  my  body  guard  on  Sunday 
nights  for  a long  time  past,  and  I am  used  to  him. 
Nobody  will  suspect  Jerry  of  being  anything  but  an 
English  bull-dog,  or  of  having  any  design  in  his  head 
but  to  fly  at  anybody  who  touches  his  master.” 

“ I must  say  again  that  I heartily  admire  your  gal- 
lantry and  youthfulness.” 

“ I must  say  again,  nonsense,  nonsense  ! When  I have 
executed  this  little  commission,  I shall/perhaps,  accept 
Tellson's  proposal  to  retire  and  live  at  my  ease.  Time 
enough,  then,  to  think  about  growing  old.  ” 

This  dialogue  had  taken  place  at  Mr.  Lorry's  usual 
desk,  with  Mon  seigneur  swarming  within  a yard  or  twTo 
of  it,  boastful  of  what  he  would  do  to  avenge  himself  on 


210 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  rascal -people  before  long.  It  was  too  much  the  way 
of  Monseigneur  under  his  reverses  as  a refugee,  and  it 
was  too  much  the  way  of  native  British  orthodoxy,  to 
talk  of  this  terrible  Revolution  as  if  it  were  the  one  only 
harvest  ever  known  under  the  skies  that  had  not  been 
sown-— as  if  nothing  had  ever  been  done,  or  omitted  to 
be  done,  that  had  led  to  it— as  if  observers  of  the 
wretched  millions  in  France,  and  of  the  misused  and 
perverted  resources  that  should  have  made  them  pros 
perous,  had  not  seen  it  inevitably  coining,  years  before, 
and  had  not  in  plain  words  recorded  what  they  saw. 
Such  vapouring,  combined  with  the  extravagant  plots 
of  Monseigneur  for  the  restoration  of  a state  of  things 
that  had  utterly  exhausted  itself,  and  worn  out  Heaven 
and  earth  as  well  as  itself,  was  hard  to  be  endured  with- 
out some  remonstrance  by  any  sane  man  who  knew  the 
truth.  And  it  wTas  such  vapouring  all  about  his  ears, 
like  a troublesome  confusion  of  blood  in  his  own  head, 
added  to  a latent  uneasiness  in  his  mind,  which  had 
already  made  Charles  Darnay  restless,  and  which  still 
kept  him  so. 

Among  the  talkers,  was  Stryver,  of  the  King's  Bench 
Bar,  far  on  his  way  to  state  promotion,  and,  therefore, 
loud  on  the  theme  : broaching  to  Monseigneur,  his  de- 
vices for  blowing  the  people  up  and  exterminating  them 
from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  doing  without  them : 
and  for  accomplishing  many  similar  objects  akin  in 
their  nature  to  the  abolition  of  eagles  by  sprinkling  salt 
on  the  tails  of  the  race.  Him,  Darnay  heard  with  a par- 
ticular feeling  of  objection  ; and  Darnay  stood  divided 
between  going  away  that  he  might  hear  no  more,  and 
remaining  to  interpose  his  word,  when  the  thing  that 
wras  to  be,  went  on  to  shape  itself  out. 

The  House  approached  Mr.  Lorry,  and  laying  a soiled 
and  unopened  letter  before  him,  asked  if  he  had  yet  dis- 
covered any  traces  of  the  person  to  whom  it  wras  ad- 
dressed ? The  House  laid  the  letter  dowrn  so  close  to 
Darnay  that  he  sawr  the  direction— the  more  quickly,  be- 
cause it  was  his  own  right  name.  The  address,  turned 
into  English,  ran  : “ Very  pressing.  To  Monsieur  here- 
tofore the  Marquis  St.  Evremonde,  of  France,  confided 
to  the  cares  of  Messrs.  Tellson  and  Co..,  Bankers,  London, 
England/' 

On  the  marriage  morning,  Doctor  Manette  had  made 
if  his  one  urgent  and  express  request  to  Charles  Darnay, 
that  the  secret  of  his  name  should  be — unless  he,  the 
Doctor,  dissolved  the  obligation — kept  inviolate  between 
them.  Nobody  else  knew  it  to  be  his  name  ; his  own  wife 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  fact ; Mr.  Lorry  could  have  none. 

“ No,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  reply  to  the  House  ; “ I have 
referred  it,  I think,  to  everybody  now  here,  and  no  on« 
can  tell  me  where  this  gentleman  is  to  be  found/' 


212 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  hands  of  the  clock  verging  upon  the  hour  of  clos- 
ing the  Bank,  there  was  a general  set  of  the  current  of 
talkers  past  Mr.  Lorry’s  desk.  He  held  the  letter,  out 
inquiringly  ; and  Monseigneur  looked  at  it,  in  the  per- 
son of  this  plotting  and  indignant  refugee  ; and  Mon- 
seigneur looked  at  it,  in  the  person  of  that  plotting  and 
indignant  refugee  ; and  This,  That,  and  The  Oth er„  all 
had  something  disparaging  to  say,  in  French  or  in 
English,  concerning  the  Marquis  who  was  not  to  be  found. 

“ Nephew,  I believe — but  in  any  case  degenerate  suc- 
cessor— of  the  polished  Marquis  who  was  murdered,” 
said  one.  “ Happy  to  say,  I never  knew  him.” 

“ A craven  who  abandoned  his  post,”  said  another — this 
Monseigneur  had  been  got  out  of  Paris,  legs  uppermost 
and  half  suffocated  in  a load  of  hay— some  years  ago.” 

“ Infected  with  the  new  doctrines,”  said  a third,  eye- 
ing the  direction  through  his  glass  in  passing  ; “ set  him- 
self in  opposition  to  the  last  Marquis,  abandoned  the 
estates  when  he  inherited  them,  and  left  them  to  the 
ruffian  herd.  They  will  recompense  him  now,  I hope, 
as  he  deserves.” 

“ Hey  ? ” cried  the  blatant  Stryver.  “ Did  he  though  ? 
Is  that  the  sort  of  fellow  ? Let  us  look  at  his  infamous 
name.  D — n the  fellow?” 

Darnay,  unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,  touched 
Mr.  Stryver  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  : 

“ I know  the  fellow.” 

“Do  you,  by  Jupiter  ?”  said  Stryver.  “ I am  sorry 
for  it.  ” 

“ Why  ? ” 

“Why,  Mr.  Darnay?  D’ye  hear  what  he  did?  Don’t 
ask,  why,  in  these  times.” 

“ But  I do  ask  why.” 

“ Then  I tell  you  again,  Mr.  Darnay,  I am  sorry  for  it. 
I am  sorry  to  hear  you  putting  any  such  extraordinary 
questions.  Here  is  a fellow,  who,  infected  by  the  most 
pestilent  and  blasphemous  code  of  devilry  that  ever 
was  known,  abandoned  his  property  to  the  vilest  scum 
of  the  earth  that  ever  did  murder  by  wholesale,  and  you 
ask  me  why  I am  sorry  that  a man.  who  instructs  youth 
knows  him.  Well,  but  I’ll  answer  you.  I am  sorry,  be- 
cause I believe  there  is  contamination  in  such  a scoun- 
drel. That’s  why.” 

Mindful  of  the  secret,  Darnay  with  great  difficulty 
checked  himself  and  said  : “ You  may  not  understand 
the  gentleman.  ” 

“ I understand  how  to  put  you  in  a corner,  Mr.  Dar- 
nay,” said  Bully  Stryver,  “and  I’ll  do  it.  If  this  fellow 
is  a gentleman,  I don't  understand  him.  You  may  tell 
him  so,  with  my  compliments.  You  may  also  tell  him, 
from  me,  that  after  abandoning  his  worldly  goods  and 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


213 


position  to  this  butcherly  mob,  I wonder  he  is  not  at  the 
head  of  them.  But,  no,  gentlemen, " said  Stryver,  look- 
ing all  round,  and  snapping  his  fingers,  “ I know  some- 
thing of  human  nature,  and  I tell  you  that  you'll  never 
find  a fellow  like  this  fellow,  trusting  himself  to  the 
mercies  of  such  precious  proteges.  No,  gentlemen  ; he'll 
always  show  'em  a clean  pair  of  heels  very  early  in  the 
scuffle,  and  sneak  away." 

With  those  words,  and  a final  snap  of  his  fingers,  Mr. 
Stryver  shouldered  himself  into  Fleet-street,  amidst  the 
general  approbation  of  his  hearers.  Mr.  Lorry  and 
Charles  Darnay  were  left  alone  at  the  desk,  in  the  gen- 
eral departure  from  the  Bank. 

“ Will  you  take  charge  of  the  letter? " said  Mr.  Lorry. 
'*  You  know  where  to  deliver  it  ? ” 

“I  do." 

“ Will  you  undertake  to  explain  that  we  suppose  it  to 
have  been  addressed  here,  on  the  chance  of  our  knowing 
where  to  forward  it,  and  that  it  has  been  here  some 
time?" 

“ I will  do  so.  Do  you  start  for  Paris  from  here  ? " 

“ From  here,  at  eight." 

“ I will  come  back,  to  see  you  off." 

Very  ill  at  ease  with  himself,  and  with  Stryver  and 
most  other  men,  Dam  ay  made  the  best  of  his  way  into 
the  quiet  of  the  Temple,  opened  the  letter,  and  read  it. 
These  were  its  contents  : 

“ Prison  of  the  Abbaye,  Paris.  June  21,  1792. 

“ Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis 

* After  having  long  been  in  danger  of  my  life  at  the 
hands  of  the  village,  I have  been  seized  with  great  vio* 
lence  and  indignity,  and  brought  a long  journey  on  foot 
to  Paris.  On  the  road  I have  suffered  a great  deal.  Noi- 
ls that  all  ; my  house  has  been  destroyed — rased  to  the 
ground. 

“ The  crime  for  which  I am  imprisoned,  Monsieur 
heretofore  the  Marquis,  and  for  which  I sliall  he  sum- 
moned before  the  tribunal,  and  shall  lose  my  life  (with- 
out your  so  generous  help),  is,  they  tell  me,  treason 
against  the  majesty  of  the  people,  in  that  I have  acted 
against  them  for  an  emigrant.  It  is  in  vain  I represent 
that  I have  acted  for  them,  and  not  against,  according  to 
your  commands.  It  is  in  vain  I represent  that,  before 
the  sequestration  of  emigrant  property,  I had  remitted 
the  imposts  they  had  ceased  to  pay  ; that  I had  collected 
no  rent  ; that  I had  had  recourse  to  no  process.  The 
only  response  is,  that  I have  acted  for  an  emigrant,  and 
where  is  that  emigrant  ? 

“ Ah  ! most  gracious  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Mar- 
quis, where  is  that  emigrant  ! I cry  in  my  sleep  where 


214 


WORKS  OF  OH  ARLES  DICKENS 


is  he  ! I demand  of  Heaven,  will  he  not  come  to  deliver 
me  i No  answer.  Ah  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis, 
I send  my  desolate  cry  across  the  sea,  hoping  it  may  per- 
haps reach  your  ears  through  the  great  bank  of  Tilson 
known  at  Paris  ! 

“ For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  generosity,  of 
the  honour  of  your  noble  name,  1 supplicate  you,  Mon- 
sieur heretofore  the  Marquis,  to  succour  and  release  me. 
My  fault  is,  that  I have  been  true  to  you.  Oh  Monsieur 
heretofore  the  Marquis,  I pray  you  be  you  true  to  me  ! 

“ From  this  prison  here  of  horror,  whence  I every  hour 
tend  nearer  and  nearer  to  destruction,  I send  you,  Mon- 
sieur heretofore  the  Marquis,  the  assurance  of  my  dolor- 
ous and  unhappy  service. 

“ Your  afflicted, 

“ Gabelle.  ” 

The  latent  uneasiness  in  Darnay’s  mind  was  roused  to 
vigorous  life  by  this  letter.  The  peril  of  an  old  servant 
and  a good  servant,  whose  only  crime  was  fidelity  to 
himself  and  his  family,  stared  him  so  reproachfully  in 
the  face,  that,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  Temple 
considering  what  to  do,  he  almost  hid  his  face  from  the 
passers-by. 

He  knew  very  well,  that  in  his  horror  of  the  deed 
which  had  culminated  the  bad  deeds  and  bad  reputation 
of  the  old  family  house,  in  his  resentful  suspicions  of 
his  uncle,  and  in  the  aversion  with  which  his  conscience 
regarded  the  crumbling  fabric  that  he  was  supposed  to 
uphold,  he  had  acted  imperfectly.  He  knew  very  well, 
that  in  his  love  for  Lucie,  his  renunciation  of  his  social 
place,  though  by  no  means  new  to  his  own  mind,  had 
been  hurried  and  incomplete.  He  knew  that  he  ought 
to  have  systematically  worked  it  out  and  supervised  it, 
and  that  he  had  meant  to  do  it,  and  that  it  had.  never 
been  done. 

The  happiness  of  his  own  chosen  English  home,  the 
necessity  of  being  always  actively  employed,  the  swift 
changes  and  troubles  of  the  time  which  had  followed  on 
one  another  so  fast,  that  the  events  of  this  week  annihi- 
lated the  immature  plans  of  last  week,  and  the  events  of 
the  week  following  made  all  new  again  ; he  knew  very 
well,  that  to  the  force  of  these  circumstances  he  had 
yielded: — not  without  disquiet,  but  still  without  contin- 
uous and  accumulating  resistance.  That  he  had  watched 
the  times  for  a time  of  action,  and  that  they  had  shifted 
and  struggled  until  the  time  had  gone  by,  and  the  nobil- 
ity were  trooping  from  France  by  every  highway  and  by- 
way, and  their  property  was  in  course  of  confiscation  and 
destruction,  and  their  very  names  were  blotting  out,  was 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


21b 


as  well  known  to  himself  as  it  could  be  to  any  new 
authority  in  France  that  might  impeach  him  for  it. 

But,  he  had  oppressed  no  man,  he  had  imprisoned  no 
man  ; he  was  so  far  from  having  harshly  exacted  pay- 
ment of  his  dues,  that  he  had  relinquished  them  of  his 
own  will,  thrown  himself  on  a world  with  no  favour  in 
it,  won  his  own  private  place  there,  and  earned  his  own 
bread.  Monsieur  Gabelle  had  held  the  impoverished 
and  involved  estate  on  written  instructions  to  spare  the 
people,  to  give  them  what  little  there  was  to  give-— such 
fuel  as  the  heavy  creditors  would  let  them  have  in  the 
winter,  and  such  produce  as  could  be  saved  from  the 
same  grip  in  the  summer — and  no  doubt  he  had" put  the 
fact  in  plea  and  proof,  for  his  own  safety,  so  that  it  could 
not  but  appear  now. 

This  favoured  the  desperate  resolution  Charles  Darnay 
had  begun  to  make,  that  he  would  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  Like  the  mariner  in  the  old  story,  the  winds  and 
streams  had  driven  him  within  the  influence  of  the  Load- 
stone Rock,  and  it  was  drawing  him  to  itself,  and  he 
must  go.  Everything  that  arose  before  his  mind  drifted 
Mm  on,  faster  and  faster,  more  and  more  steadily,  to  the 
terrible  attraction.  His  latent  uneasiness  had  been, 
that  bad  aims  were  being  worked  out  in  his  own  un- 
happy land  by  bad  instruments,  and  that  he  who  could 
not  fail  to  know  that  he  was  better  than  they,  was  not 
there,  trying  to  do  something  to  stay  bloodshed,  and 
assert  the  claims  of  mercy  and  humanity.  With  this 
uneasiness  half  stifled,  and  half  reproaching  him,  he  had 
been  brought  to  the  pointed  comparison  of  himself  with 
the  brave  old  gentleman  in  whom  duty  was  so  strong  ; 
upon  that  comparison  (injurious  to  himself),  had  instantly 
followed  the  sneers  of  Mon  seigneur,  which  had  stung 
him  bitterly,  and  those  of  Stryver,  which  above  ail 
were  coarse  and  galling,  for  old  reasons.  Upon  those, 
had  followed  Ga  belle’s  letter  : the  appeal  of  an  inno- 
cent prisoner,  in  danger  of  death,  to  his  justice,  honour, 
and  good  name. 

His  resolution  was  made.  He  must  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  The  Loadstone  Rock  was  drawing  him,  and  he 
must  sail  on,  until  he  struck.  He  knew  of  no  rock  ; he 
saw  hardly  any  danger.  The  intention  with  which  he 
had  done  what  he  had  done,  even  although  he  had  left 
it  incomplete,  presented  it  before  him  in  an  aspect  that 
would  be  gratefully  acknowledged  in  France  on  his  pre- 
senting himself  to  assert  it.  Then,  that  glorious  vision 
of  doing  good,  which  is  so  often  the  sanguine  mirage  of 
so  many  good  minds,  arose  before  him,  and  he  even  saw 
himself  in  the  illusion  with  some  influence  to  guide 
this  raging  Revolution  that  was  running  so  fearfully 
wild. 


' 'r 


216  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

As  lie  walked  to  and  fro  with  lijls  resolution  made,  he 
considered  that  neither  Lucie  nor  her  father  must  know 
of  it  until  he  was  gone.  Lucie  should  be  spared  the 
pain  of  separation  ; and  her  father,  always  reluctant  to 
turn  his  thoughts  towards  the  dangerous  ground  of  old, 
should  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  step,  as  a step 
taken,  and  not  in  the  balance  of  suspense  and  doubt. 
How  much  of  the  incompleteness  of  his  situation  was 
referable  to  her  father,  through  the  painful  anxiety  to 
avoid  reviving  old  associations  of  France  in  his  mind,  he 
did  not  discuss  with  himself.  But,  that  circumstance 
too,  had  had  its  influence  in  his  course. 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  with  thoughts  very  busy,  until 
it  was  time  to  return  to  Tellson’s,  and  take  leave  of  Mr. 
Lorry.  As  soon  as  he  arrived  in  Paris  he  would  present 
himself  to  this  old  friend, /but  he  must  say  nothing  of 
his  intention  now, 

A car  with  post-horses  was  ready  at  the  Bank 
door,  a\  >as^n'  "was  booted  and  equipped. 

“ Ilia,  w' delivered  that  letter,”  said  Charles  Darnay 
to  Mr.  Lorry.  “ I would  not  consent  to  _your  being 
charged  with  any  written  answer,  but  perhaps  you  will 
take  a verbal  one  ? ” . 

‘‘That  I will,  and  readily,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “if  it  is 
not  dangerous.” 

“ Not  at  ail.  Though  it  is  to  a prisoner  in  the 
Ahbaye.” 

‘ *'  What  is  his  name  ? ” said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  his  open 
pocket-book  in  his  hand. 

“ Gabel!  e.” 

“ Gabelle.  And  what  is  the  message  to  the  unfortun- 
ate Gabelle  in  prison  ? ” 

“Simply,  * that  he  has  received  the  letter,  and  will 
come.’  ” 

“ Any  time  mentioned  ? ” 

“ He  will  start  upon  his  journey  to-morrow  night.” 

“ Anv  person  mentioned  ? ” 

“ No:” 

He  helped  Mr.  Lorry  to  wrap  himself  in  a number  of 
coats  and  cloaks,  and  went  out  with  him  from  the  warm 
atmosphere  of  the  old  bank,  into  the  misty  air  of  Fleet- 
street. 

“ My  love  to  Lucie,  and  to  little  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry 
at  parting,  “ and  take  precious  care  of  them  till  I come 
back.”  Charles  Darnay  shook  his  head  and  doubtfully 
smiled,  as  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

That  niglit — it  was  the  fourteenth  of  August — he  sat 
up  late,  and  wrote  two  fervent  letters  ; one  was  to  Lucie, 
explaining  the  strong  obligation  he  was  under  to  go  to 
Paris,  and  showing  her,  at  length,  the  reasons  that  he 
had,  for  feeling  confident  that  he  coukl  become  involved 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


217 


in  no  personal  danger  there  ; the  other  was  to  the 
Doctor,  confiding  Lucie  and  their  dear  child  to  his  care, 
and  dwelling  on  the  same  topics  with  the  strongest 
assurances.  To  both,  he  wrote,  that  he  would  dispatch 
letters  in  proof  of  his  safety,  immediately  after  his 
arrival. 

It  was  a hard  day,  that  day  of  being  among  them, 
with  the  first  reservation  of  their  joint  lives  on  his 
mind.  It  was  a hard  matter  to  preserve  the  innocent 
deceit  of  which  they  were  profoundly  unsuspicious. 
But,  an  affectionate  glance  at  his  wife,  so  happy  and 
busy,  made  him  resolute  not  to  tell  her  what  impended 
(he  had  been  half  moved  to  do  it,  so  strange  it  was  to 
him  to  act  in  anything  without  her  quiet  aid),  and  the 
day  passed  quickly.  Early  in  the  evening  he  embraced 
her,  and  her  scarcely  less  dear  namesake,  pretending 
that  he  would  return  by-and-by  (an  imagh^^^  agage- 
ment  took  him  out,  and  he  had  secrete  -WMiJse  of 
clothes  ready),  and  so  he  emerged  into  the  m ^ mist  of 
the  heavy  streets,  with  a heavier  heart. 

The  unseen  force  was  drawing  him  fast  to  itself,  now, 
and  all  the  tides  and  winds  were  setting  straight  and 
strong  towards  it.  He  left  his  two  letters  with  a trusty 
porter,  to  be  delivered  half  an  hour  before  midnight, 
and  no  sooner  ; took  horse  for  Dover  ; and  began  his 
journey.  “For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  gen- 
erosity, of  the  honour  of  your  noble  name ! ” was  the 
poor  prisoner’s  cry  with  which  he  strengthened  his  sink- 
ing heart,  as  he  left  all  that  was  dear  on  earth  behind 
him,  and  floated  away  for  the  Loadstone  Rock. 


-j 


V OI,.  '5 


218 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


BOOK  THE  THIRD.— THE  TRACK 
OF  A STORM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

- i In  Secret. 

The  traveller  fared  slowly  on  his  way,  who  fared  tor 
wards  Paris  from  England  in  the  autumn  of  the  year 
one  Ahajfeippl  seven  hundred  and  ninety-two.  More  than 
enough  <W  bad  roads,  bad  equipages,  and  bad  horses,  he 
would  have  encountered  to  delay  him,  though  the  fallen 
and  unfortunate  King  of  France  had  been  upon  his 
throne  in  all  his  glory ; but,  the  changed  times  were 
fraught  with  other  obstacles  than  these.  Every  tow^ 
gate  and  village  taxing-house  had  its  band  of  citizen* 
patriots,  with  their  national  muskets  in  a most  explosive 
state  of  readiness,  who  stopped  all  comers  and  goers, 
cross-questioned  them,  inspected  their  papers,  looked 
for  their  names  in  lists  of  their  own,  turned  them  back, 
or  sent  them  on,  or  stopped  them  and  laid  them  in  hold, 
as  their  capricious  judgment  or  fancy  deemed  best  for 
the  dawning  Republic  One  and  Indivisible,  of  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death. 

A very  few  French  leagues  of  his  journey  were  ac- 
complished, when  Charles  Darnay  began  to  perceive 
that  for  him  along  these  country  roads  there  was  no 
hope  of  return  until  he  should  have  been  declared  a 
good  citizen  at  Paris.  Whatever  might  befal  now,  he 
must  on  to  his  journey’s  end.  Not  a mean  village  closed 
upon  him,  not  a common  barrier  dropped  across  the  road 
behind  him,  but  he  knew  it  to  be  another  iron  door  in 
the  series  that  was  barred  between  him  and  England, 
universal  watchfulness  so  encompassed  him,  that  if  he 
had  been  taken  in  a net,  or  were  being  forwarded  to  his 
destination  in  a cage,  he  could  not  have  felt  his  freedom 
more  completely  gone. 

This  universal  watchfulness  not  only  stopped  him  on 
the  highway  twenty  times  in  a stage,  but  retarded  his 
progress  twenty  times  in  a day,  by  riding  after  him  and 
taking  him  back,  riding  before  him  and  stopping  him  by 
anticipation,  riding  with  him  and  keeping  him  in  charge. 
He  had  been  days  upon  his  journey  in  France  alone 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


219 


when  he  went  to  bed  tired  out,  in  a little  town  on  the 
high  road,  still  a long  way  from  Paris. 

Nothing  but  the  production  of  the  afflicted  Gabelle’s 
letter  from  his  prison  of  the  Abbaye  would  have  got  him 
on  so  far.  His  difficulty  at  the  guard-house  in  this  small 
place  had  been  such,  that  he  felt  his  journey  to  have 
come  to  a crisis.  And  he  was,  therefore,  as  little  sur- 
prised as  a man  could  be  to  find  himself  awakened  at  the 
small  inn  to  which  he  had  been  remitted  until  morning, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Awakened  by  a timid  local  functionary  and  three 
armed  patriots  in  rough  red  caps  and  with  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  who  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

“ Emigrant, ” said  the  functionary,  “I  am  going  to 
send  you  on  to  Paris,  under  an  escort/’ 

“ Citizen,  I desire  nothing  more  than  to  get  to  Paris, 
though  I could  dispense  with  the  escort.” 

“ Silence  ! ” growled  a red-cap,  striking  at  the  cover- 
let with  the  butt-end  of  his  musket.  “ Peace,  aristo- 
crat ! ” 

“It  is  as  the  good  patriot  says,”  observed  the  timid 
functionary.  “ You  are  an  aristocrat,  and  must  have  an 
escort — and  must  pay  for  it.” 

“ I have  no  choice,”  said  Charles  Darnay. 

“ Choice  ! Listen  to  him  ! ” cried  the  same  scowling 
red-cap.  “ As  if  it  was  not  a favour  to  be  protected  from 
the  lamp-iron.” 

“It  is  always  as  the  good  patriot  says,”  observed  the 
functionary.  “ Rise  and  dress  yourself,  emigrant.” 

Darnay  complied,  and  was  taken  back  to  the  guard- 
house where  other  patriots  in  rough  red  caps  were  smok- 
ing, drinking,  and  sleeping,  by  a watch-fire.  Here  he 
paid  a heavy  price  for  his  escort,  and  hence  he  started 
with  it  on  the  wet,  wet  roads  at  three  o’clock  in  the 
morning. 

The  escort  were  two  mounted  patriots  in  red  caps  and 
tricoloured  cockades,  armed  with  national  muskets  and 
sabres,  who  rode  one  on  either  side  of  him.  The  escorted 
governed  his  own  horse,  but  a loose  line  was  attached 
to  his  bridle,  the  end  of  which  one  of  the  patriots  kept 
girded  round  his  wrist.  In  this  state  they  set  forth  with 
the  sharp  rain  driving  in  their  faces  : clattering  at  a 
heavy  dragoon  trot  over  the  uneven  town  pavement,  and 
out  upon  the  mire-deep  roads.  In  this  state  they  tra- 
versed without  change,  except  of  horses  and  pace,  all  the 
mire-deep  leagues  that  lay  between  them  and  the  capital. 

They  travelled  in  the  night,  halting  an  hour  or  two 
after  day-break,  and  lying  by  until  the  twilight  fell. 
The  escort  were  so  wretchedly  clothed,  that  they  twisted 
straw  round  their  bare  legs,  and  thatched  their  ragged 
shoulders  to  keep  the  wet  off.  Apart  from  the  personal 


220 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


discomfort  of  being  so  attended,  and  apart  from  such 
considerations  of  present  danger  as  arose  from  one  of  the 
patriots  being  chronically  drunk,  and  carrying  his  mus- 
ket very  recklessly,  Charles  Darnay  did  not  allow  the 
restraint  that  was  laid  upon  him  to  awaken  any  serious 
fears  in  his  breast ; for,  he  reasoned  with  himself  that 
it  could  have  no  reference  to  the  merits  of  an  individual 
case  that  was  not  yet  stated,  and  of  representations,  con- 
firmable by  the  prisoner  in  the  Abbaye,  that  were  not 
yet  made. 

But  when  they  came  to  the  town  of  Beauvais — which 
they  did  at  eventide,  when  the  streets  were  filled  with 
people — he  eould*  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the 
aspect  of  affairs  was  very  alarming.  An  ominous  crowd 
gathered  to  see  him  dismount  at  the  posting -yard,  and 
many  voices  in  it  called  out  loudly,  “Down  with  the 
emigrant ! ” 

He  stopped  in  the  act  of  swinging  himself  out  of  his 
saddle,  and,  resuming  it  as  his  safest  place,  said  : 

“ Emigrant,  my  friends  ! Do  you  not  see  me  here,  in 
France,  of  my  own  will  ? ” 

“You  are  a cursed  emigrant,”  cried  a farrier,  making 
at  him  in  a furious  manner  through  the  press,  hammer 
in  hand  ; “ and  you  are  a cursed  aristocrat  ! ” 

The  postmaster  interposed  himself  between  this  man 
and  the  rider's  bridle  (at  which  he  was  evidently  making), 
and  soothingly  said,  “ Let  him  be  ! let  him  be  ! He  will 
be  judged  at  Paris  ! ” 

“Judged  ! ” repeated  the  farrier,  swinging  his  ham- 
mer. “ Ay  ! and  condemned  as  a traitor.”  At  this,  the 
crowd  roared  approval. 

Checking  the  postmaster,  who  was  for  turning  his 
horse's  head  to  the  yard  (the  drunken  patriot  sat  com- 
posedly in  his  saddle  looking  on,  with  the  line  round  his 
wrist),  Darnay  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  make  his  voice 
heard  : 

“ Friends,  you  deceive  yourselves,  or  you  are  deceived. 
I am  not  a traitor.” 

“ He  lies  ! ” cried  the  smith.  “ He  is  a traitor  since 
the  decree.  His  life  is  forfeit  to  the  people.  His  cursed 
life  is  not  his  own  ! ” 

At  the  instant  when  Darnay  saw  a rush  in  the  eyes  of 
the  crowd,  which  another  instant  would  have  brought 
upon  him,  the  postmaster  turned  his  horse  into  the  yard, 
the  escort  rode  in  close  upon  his  horse’s  flanks,  and  the 
postmaster  shut  and  barred  the  crazy  double  gates.  The 
farrier  struck  a blow  upon  them  with  his  hammer,  and 
the  crowd  groaned  ; but,  no  more  was  done. 

“ What  is  this  decree  that  the  smith  spoke  of?” 
Darnay  asked  the  postmaster,  when  he  had  thanked 
them,  and  stood  beside  him  in  the  yard. 


' ' ' ' f 

A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  221 

et  Truly,  a decree  for  selling  the  property  of  emi- 
grants.” 

“ When  passed?” 

“On  the  fourteenth.” 

“ The  day  I left  England  I ” • 

“ Everybody  says  it  is  but  one  of  several,  and  that 
there  will  be  others — if  there  are  not  already — banish- 
ing all  emigrants,  and  condemning  all  to  death  who  re- 
turn. That  is  what  he  meant  when  he  said  your  life 
was  not  your  own.  ” 

“But  there  are  no  such  decrees  yet?” 

“ What  do  I know  ! ” said  the  postmaster,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  ; “ there  may  be,  or  there  will  be.  It  is 
all  the  same.  What  would  you  have  ? ” 

They  rested  on  some  straw  in  a loft  until  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  then  rode  forward  again  when  all  the 
town  was  asleep.  Among  the  many  wild  changes  ob- 
servable on  familiar  things  which  makes  this  wild  ride 
unreal,  not  the  least  was  the  seeming  rarity  of  sleep. 
After  long  and  lonely  spurring  over  dreary  roads,  they 
would  come  to  a cluster  of  poor  cottages,  not  steeped  in 
darkness,  but  all  glittering  with  lights,  and  would  find 
the  people,  in  a ghostly  manner  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  circling  hand  in  hand  round  a shrivelled  tree  of 
Liberty,  or  all  drawn  up  together  singing  a Liberty 
song.  Happily,  however,  there  was  sleep  in  Beauvais 
that  night  to  help  them  out  of  it,  and  they  passed  on 
once  more  into  solitude  and  loneliness  : jingling  through 
the  untimely  cold  and  wet,  among  impoverished  fields 
that  had  yielded  no  fruits  of  the  earth  that  year,  diver- 
sified by  the  blackened  remains  of  burnt  houses,  and  by 
the  sudden  emergence  from  ambuscade,  and  sharp  rein- 
ing up  across  their  way,  of  patriot  patrols  on  the  watch 
on  all  the  roads. 

Daylight  at  last  found  them  before  the  wall  of  Paris. 
The  barrier  was  closed  and  strongly  guarded  when  they 
rode  up  to  it. 

“ Where  are  the  papers  of  this  prisoner?”  demanded 
a resolute-looking  man  in  authority,  who  was  summoned 
out  by  the  guard. 

Naturally  struck  by  the  disagreeable  word,  Charles 
Darnav  requested  the  speaker  to  take  notice  that  fre  wax 
a free  traveller  and  French  citizen,  in  charge  of  as 
escort  which  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country  had  im- 
posed upon  him,  and  which  he  had  paid  for. 

“Where,”  repeated  the  same  personage,  without  tak- 
ing any  heed  of  him  whatever,  “are  the  papers  of  this 
prisoner  ? ” 

The  drunken  patriot  had  them  in  his  cap,  and  pro- 
duced them.  Casting  his  eyes  over  Grabelle’s  letter, 
the  same  personage  in  authority  showed  some  disorder 


222 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  surprise,  and  looked  at  Darnay  with  a close  attent- 
ion. 

He  left  both  escort  and  escorted  without  saying  a 
word,  however,  and  went  into  the  guard -room  ; mean- 
while, they  sat  upon  their  horses  outside  the  gate. 
Looking  about  him  while  in  this  state  of  suspense, 
Charles  Darnay  observed  that  the  gate  was  held  by  a 
mixed  guard  of  soldiers  and  patriots,  the  latter  far  out- 
numbering the  former  ; and  that  while  ingress  into  the 
city  for  peasants'  carts  bringing  in  supplies,  and  for 
similar  traffic  and  traffickers,  was  easy  enough,  egress, 
even  for  the  homeliest  people,  was  very  difficult.  A 
numerous  medley  of  men  and  women,  not  to  mention 
beasts  and  vehicles  of  various  sorts,  was  waiting  to  issue 
forth  ; but,  the  previous  identification  was  so  strict  that 
they  filtered  through  the  barrier  very  slowly.  Some  of 
these  people  knew  their  turn  for  examination  to  be  so 
far  off,  that  they  lay  down  on  the  ground  to  sleep  or 
smoke,  while  others  talked  together,  or  loitered  about. 
The  red  cap  and  tricolor  cockade  were  universal,  both 
among  men  and  women. 

When  he  had  sat  in  his  saddle  some  half-hour,  taking 
note  of  these  things,  Darnay  found  himself  confronted 
by  the  same  man  in  authority,  who  directed  the  guard 
to  open  the  barrier.  Then  he  delivered  to  the  escort, 
drunk  and  sober,  a receipt  for  the  escorted,  and  requested 
him  to  dismount.  He  did  so,  and  the  two  patriots,  lead- 
ing his  tired  horse,  turned  and  rode  away  without  enter- 
ing the  city. 

He  accompanied  his  conductor  into  a guard-room, 
smelling-  of  common  wine  and  tobacco,  where  certain  sol- 
diers and  patriots,  asleep  and  awake,  drunk  and  sober, 
and  in  various  neutral  states  between  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing, drunkenness  and  sobriety,  were  standing  and  lying 
abouto  The  light  in  the  guard -house,  half  derived  from 
the  waning  oil-lamps  of  the  night,  and  half  from  the 
overcast  day,  was  in  a correspondingly  uncertain  condi- 
tion. Some  registers  were  lying  open  on  a desk,  and  an 
officer  of  a coarse  dark  aspect,  presided  over  these. 

“ Citizen  Defarge,”  said  he  to  Darnay’ s conductor,  as 
he  took  a slip  of  paper  to  write  on.  “ Is  this  the  emi- 
grant Evremonde  ? ” 

“ This  is  the  man.” 
e<  Your  age,  Evremonde?” 

“ Thirty-seven.” 

“ Married,  Evremonde  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where  married  ? ” 

€t  In  England.” 

Without  doubt.  Where  is  your  wife,  Evremonde  ? ” 
46  In  England.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


223 


“ Without  doubt.  You  are  consigned,  Evremonde,  to 
the  prison  of  La  Force.  ” 

“ Just  Heaven  ! ” exclaimed  Darnay.  “ Under  what 
law,  and  for  what  offence  ? ” 

The  officer  looked  up  from  his  slip  of  paper  for  a 
moment. 

“ We  have  new  laws,  Evremonde,  and  new  offences, 
since  you  were  here.”  He  said  it  with  a hard  smile,  and 
went  on  writing. 

“ I entreat  you  to  observe  that  I have  come  here  volun- 
tarily, in  response  to  that  written  appeal  of  a fellow  coun- 
tryman which  lies  before  you.  I demand  no  more  than 
the  opportunity  to  do  so  without  delay.  Is  not  that 
my  right  ? ” 

“Emigrants  have  no  rights,  Evremonde,”  w^as  the 
stolid  reply.  The  officer  wrote  until  he  had  finished, 
read  over  to  himself  which  he  had  written,  sanded  it, 
and  handed  it  to  Defarge,  with  the  words  “ In  secret.” 

Defarge  motioned  with  the  paper  to  the  prisoner  that 
he  must  accompany  him.  The  prisoner  obeyed,  and  a 
guard  of  two  armed  patriots  attended  them. 

‘ ‘ Is  it  you,”  said  Defarge,  in  a low  voice,  as  they  went 
shown  the  guard-house  steps  and  turned  into  Paris,  “who 
married  the  daughter  of  Doctor  Ma&ette,  once  a prisoner 
in  the  Bastille  that  is  no  more.” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Darnay,  looking  at  him  with  surprise. 

“ My  name  is  Defarge,  and  I keep  a wine-shop  in  the 
Quarter  Saint  Antoine.  Possibly  you  have  heard  of 
me.  ” 

“ My  wife  came  to  vour  house  to  reclaim  her  father  1 
Yes!” 

The  word  “ wife”  seemed  to  serve  as  a gloomy  re- 
minder  to  Defarge,  to  say  with  sudden  impatience,  “In 
the  name  of  that  sharp  female  newly  born  and  called 
La  Guillotine,  why  did  you  come  to  France?” 

“You  heard  me  say  why,  a minute  ago.  Do  you  not 
believe  it  is  the  truth  ? ” 

“A  bad  truth  for  you,”  said  Defarge,  speaking  with 
knitted  brows,  and  looking  straight  before  him. 

“ Indeed,  I am  lost  here.  All  here  is  so  unprecedent- 
ed, so  changed,  so  sudden  and  unfair,  that  1 am  absolute- 
ly lost.  Will  you  render  me  a little  help  ? ” 

“None.”  Defarge  spoke,  always  looking  straight  be- 
fore him. 

“ Will  you  answer  me  a single  question  ?” 

“ Perhaps.  According  to  its  nature.  You  can  say 
what  it  is.” 

“ In  this  prison  that  I am  going  to  so  unjustly,  shall  I 
have  some  free  communication  with  the  world  out 
side  ? ” 

“You  will  see.” 


224 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ I am  not  to  be  buried  there,  prejudged,  and  without 
any  means  of  presenting  my  case  ? ” 

“ You  will  see.  But,  what  then?  Other  people  have 
been  similarly  buried  in  worse  prisons,  before  now.” 

“ But  never  by  me,  Citizen  Defarge.” 

Defarge  glanced  darkly  at  him  for  answer,  and  walked 
on  in  a steady  and  set  silence.  The  deeper  he  sank  into 
this  silence,  the  fainter  hope  there  was — or  so  Darnay 
thought — of  his  softening  in  any  slight  degree.  He, 
therefore,  made  haste  to  say  : 

“ It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  (you  know,  Citi- 
zen, even  better  than  I,  of  how  much  importance),  thalt 
I should  be  able  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Lorry  of  Telh 
son’s  Bank,  an  English  gentleman  who  is  now  in  Paris, 
the  simple  fact,  without  comment,  that  I have  been 
thrown  into  the  prison  of  La  Force.  Will  you  cause 
that  to  be  done  for  me?” 

“ I will  do,”  Defarge  doggedly  rejoined,  “ nothing  for 
you.  My  duty  is  to  my  country  and  the  People.  I am 
the  sworn  servant  of  both,  against  you.  I will  do  noth- 
ing for  you.” 

Charles  Darnay  felt  it  hopeless  to  entreat  him  further, 
and  his  pride  was  touched  besides.  As  they  walked  on 
in  silence,  he  could  not  but  see  how  used  the  people 
were  to  the  spectacle  of  prisoners  passing  along  the 
streets.  The  very  children  scarcely  noticed  him.  A few 
passers  turned  their  heads,  and  a few  shook  their  fingers 
at  him  as  an  aristocrat  ; otherwise,  that  a man  in  good 
clothes  should  be  going  to  prison,  was  no  more  remarka- 
ble than  that  a labourer  in  working  clothes  should  be 
going  to  work.  In  one  narrow,  dark,  and  dirty  street 
through  which  they  passed,  an  excited  orator,  mounted 
on  a stool,  was  addressing  an  excited  audience  on  the 
crimes  against  the  people, of  the  king  and  the  royal  family. 
The  few  words  that  he  caught  from  the  man’s  lips,  first 
made  it  known  to  Charles  Darnay  that  the  king  was  in 
prison,  and  that  the  foreign  ambassadors  had  one  and 
all  left  Paris.  On  the  road  (except  at  Beauvais)  he  had 
heard  absolutely  nothing.  The  escort  and  the  universal 
watchf  ulness  had  completely  isolated  him. 

That  he  had  fallen  among  far  greater  dangers  than 
those  which  had  developed  themselves  when  he  left 
England,  he  of  course  knew  now.  That  perils  had 
thickened  about  him  fast,  and  might  thicken  faster  and 
faster  yet,  he  of  course  knew  now.  He  could  not  but 
admit  to  himself  that  he  might  not  have  made  this  jour- 
ney, if  he  could  have  foreseen  the  events  of  a few  days. 
And  yet  his  misgivings  were  not  so  dark  as,  imagined  by 
the  light  of  this  later  time, they  would  appear.  Troubled 
as  the  future  was,  it  was  the  unknown  future,  and  in  its 
obscurity  there  was  ignorant  hope.  The  horrible  mas- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


225 


sacre,  days  and  nights  long,  which,  within  a few  rounds  of 
the  clock,  was  to  set  a great  mark  of  blood  upon  the 
blessed  garnering  time  of  harvest,  was  as  far  out  of  bis 
knowledge  as  if  it  had  been  a hundred  thousand  years 
away.  The  “ sharp  female  newly  born  and  called  La 
Guillotine,”  was  hardly  known  to  him,  or  to  the  gener- 
ality of  people,  by  name.  The  frightful  deeds  that 
were  to  be  soon  done,  were  probably  unimagined  at  that 
time  in  the  brains  of  the  doers.  How  could  they  have 
a place  in  the  shadowy  conceptions  of  a gentle  mind  ? 

Of  unjust  treatment  in  detention  and  hardship,  and  in 
cruel  separation  from  his  wife  and  child,  he  foreshad- 
owed the  likelihood,  or  the  certainty  ; but,  beyond  this, 
he  dreaded  nothing  distinctly.  With  this  on  his  mind, 
which  was  enough  to  carry  into  a dreary  prison  court- 
yard, he  arrived  at  the  prison  of  La  Force. 

A man  with  a bloated  face  opened  the  strong  wicket,  to 
whom  Defarge  presented  “ The  Emigrant  Evremonde.” 

“ What  the  Devil  ! How  many  more  of  them  ! ” ex- 
claimed the  man  with  the  bloated  face. 

Defarge  took  his  receipt  without  noticing  the  exclam- 
ation, and  withdrew,  with  his  two  fellow-patriots. 

“ What  the  Devil,  I say  again  ! 99  exclaimed  the  gaoler, 
left  with  his  wife.  4 ‘How  m ny  more  ” 

The  gaoler’s  wife,  being  provided  with  no  answer  to 
the  question,  merely  ? plied,  “ One  must  have  patience, 
my  dear  ! ” Three  turnkeys  T~dio  entered  sponsive  to 
the  bell  she  rang,  echoed  the  sentiment,  and  me  added, 
“ For  the  love  of  Liberty  ” liich  sounded  in  that 
place  like  an  inappropriate  .onclusion. 

The  prison  of  La  Force  was  a ioomy  prison,  dark  and 
filthy,  and  with  a horrible  . mell  of  \ju1  sleep  in  it.  Ex- 
traordinary how  soon  the  noisome  flavour  of  imprisoned 
sleep,  becomes  manifest  in  all  such  places  that  are  ill- 
cared  for  ! 

“ In  secret,  too,”  grumbled  the  gaoler,  looking  at  the 
written  paper.  “ As  if  I was  not  already  full  to  burst- 
ing  ! ” 

He  stuck  the  paper  on  a file,  in  an  ill-humour,  and 
Charles  Darnay  awaited  his  further  pleasure  for  half  an 
hour  : sometimes,  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  strong  arched 
room  : sometimes,  resting  on  a stone  seat : in  either  case 
detained  to  be  imprinted  on  the  memory  of  the  chief  and 
Ms  subordinates. 

“Come  ! 99  said  the  chief,  at  length  taking  up  his  keys, 
Jcome  with  me,  emigrant.” 

Through  the  dismal  prison  twilight,  his  new  charge 
accompanied  him  by  corridor  and  staircase,  many  doors 
clanging  and  locking  behind  them,  until  they  came  into 
a large,  low,  vaulted  chamber,  crowded  with  prisoners 
of  both  sexes.  The  women  were  seated  at  a long  table. 


226 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


reading  and  writing,  knitting,  sewing,  and  embroidering ; 
fcbe  men  were  for  the  most  part  standing  behind  their 
chairs,  or  lingering  up  and  down  the  room. 

In  the  instinctive  association  of  prisoners  with  shame- 
ful crime  and  disgrace,  the  new  comer  recoiled  from  this 
company.  Rut,  the  crowning  unreality  of  his  long  un- 
real ride,  was,  their  alias  one  rising  to  receive  him,  with 
every  refinement  of  manner  known  to  the  time,  and  with 
all  the  engaging  graces  and  courtesies  of  life. 

So  strangely  clouded  were  these  refinements,  by  the 
prison  manners  and  gloom,  so  spectral  did  they  become 
in  the  inappropriate  squalor  and  misery  through  which 
they  were  seen,  that  Charles  Darnay  seemed  to  stand  in 
a company  of  the  dead.  Ghosts  all  ! The  ghost  of 
beauty,  the  ghost  of  stateliness,  the  ghost  of  elegance, 
the  ghost  of  pride,  the  ghost  of  frivolity,  the  ghost  of 
wit,  the  ghost  of  youth,  the  ghost  of  age,  all  waiting 
their  dismissal  from  the  desolate  shore,  all  turning  on 
him  eyes  that  were  changed  by  the  death  they  had  died 
in  coming  there. 

It  struck  him  motionless.  The  gaoler  standing  at  his 
side,  and  the  other  gaolers  moving  about,  who  would 
have  been  well  enough  as  to  appearance  in  the  ordinary 
exercise  of  their  functions,  looked  so  extravagantly 
coarse  contrasted  with  sorrowing  mothers  and  blooming 
daughters  who  were  there — with  the  apparitions  of  the 
coquette,  the  young  beauty,  and  the  mature  woman  deli- 
cately bred — that  the  inversion  of  all  experience  and 
likelihood  which  the  scene  of  shadows  presented  was 
heightened  to  its  utmost.  Surely,  ghosts  all.  Surely, 
the  long  unreal  ride  some  progress  of  disease  that  had 
brought  him  to  these  gloomy  shades  ! 

“In  the  name  of  the  assembled  companions  in  mis- 
fortune/’ said  a gentleman  of  courtly  appearance  and 
address,  coming  forward,  “ I have  the  honour  of  giving 
you  welcome  to  La  Force,  and  of  condoling  wLh  you  on 
the  calamity  that  has  brought  you  among  us.  May  it 
soon  terminate  happily  ! It  would  be  an  impertinence 
elsewhere,  but  it  is  not  so  here,  to  ask  your  name  and 
condition?  ” 

Charles  Darnay  roused  himself,  and  gave  the  required 
information,  in  words  as  suitable  as  he  could  find. 

“ But  I hope/’  said  the  gentleman,  following  the  chief 
gaoler  wdth  his  eyes,  who  moved  across  the  room,  “ that 
you  are  not  in  secret  ? ” 

“I  do  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  term,  but  I 
have  heard  them  say  so.” 

“Ah,  what  a pity  ! We  so  much  regret  it ! But  take 
courage  ; several  members  of  our  society  have  been  in 
secret,  at  first,  and  it  has  lasted  but  a short  time.  ” Then 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


227 


lie  added,  raising  his  voice,  ‘ I grieve  to  inform  the 
society — in  secret.” 

There  was  a muramr  of  commiseration  as  Charles  Dar« 
nay  crossed  the  room  to  a grated  door  where  the  gaoler 
awaited  him,  and  many  voices— among  which,  the  soft 
and  compassionate  voices  of  women  were  conspicuous — 
gave  him  good  wishes  and  encouragement.  He  turned 
at  the  grated  door,  to  render  the  thanks  of  his  heart ; it 
closed  under  the  gaoler’s  hand  ; and  the  apparitions  van- 
ished from  his  sight  for  ever. 

The  wicket  opened  on  a stone  staircase,  leading  up- 
ward. When  they  had  ascended  forty  steps  (the  prisoner 
of  half  an  hour  already  counted  them),  the  gaoler  opened 
a low  black  door,  and  they  passed  into  a solitary  cell. 
It  struck  cold  and  damp,  but  was  not  dark. 

€<  Yours,”  said  the  gaoler. 

“ Why  am  I confined  alone  ?” 

‘ How  do  I know  ! ” 

“I  can  buy  pen,  ink,  and  paper?” 

“ Such  are  not  my  orders.  You  will  be  visited,  and 
can  ask  then.  At  present,  you  may  buy  your  food,  and 
nothing  more.” 

There  were  in  the  cell,  a chair,  a table,  and  a straw 
mattress.  As  the  gaoler  made  a general  inspection  of 
these  objects,  and  of  the  four  waits,  before  going  out, 
a wandering  fancy  wandered  through  the  mind  of  the 
prisoner  leaning  against  the  wall  opposite  to  him,  that 
this  gaoler  was  so  unwholesomely  bloated,  both  in  face 
and  person,  as  to  look  like  a man  who  had  been  drowned 
and  filled  with  water.  When  the  gaoler  was  gone,  he 
thought,  in  the  same  wandering  way,  “ Now  am  I left, 
as  if  I were  dead.”  Stopping  then,  to  look  down  at  the 
mattress,  he  turned  from  it  with  a sick  feeling,  and 
thought,  “ And  here  in  these  crawling  creatures  is  the 
first  condition  of  the  body  after  death.” 

“ Five  paces  by  four  and  a half,  five  paces  by  four  and 
a half,  five  paces  by  four  and  a half.”  The  prisoner 
walked  to  and  fro  in  his  cell,  counting  its  measurement, 
and  the  roar  of  the  city  rose  like  muffled  drums  with  & 
wild  swell  of  voices  added  to  them.  “He  made  shoes, 
he  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes.”  The  prisoner  counted 
the  measurement  again,  and  paced  faster,  to  draw  his 
mind  with  him  from  that  latter  repetition.  “ The  ghosts 
that  vanished  when  the  wicket  closed.  There  w7as  one 
among  them,  the  appearance  of  a lady  dressed  in  black, 
who  was  leaning  in  the  embrasure  of  a window,  and  she 
had  a light  shining  upon  her  golden  hair,  and  she  looked 
like  * * * * Let  us  ride  on  again,  for  God’s  sake, 
through  the  illuminated  villages  with  the  people  all 
awake  ! * * * * He  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes,  he 
made  shoes.  * * * * Five  paces  by  four  and  a half  % 


228 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


With  such  scraps  tossing  and  rolling  upward  from  the 
depths  of  his  mind,  the  prisoner  walked  faster  and 
faster,  obstinately  counting  and  counting  ; and  the  roar 
of  the  city  changed  to  this  extent — that  it  still  rolled  in 
like  muffled  drums,  but  with  the  wail  of  voices  that  he 
knew,  in  the  swell  that  rose  above  them. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Grindstone. 

Tellson’s  Bank,  established  in  the  Saint  Germain 
Quarter  of  Paris,  was  in  a wing  of  a large  house  ap* 
proached  by  a court-yard  and  shut  off  from  the  street  by 
a high  wall  and  a strong  gate.  The  house  belonged  to 
a great  nobleman  who  had  lived  in  it  until  he  made  a 
flight  from  the  troubles,  in  his  own  cook's  dress,  and  got 
across  the  borders.  A mere  beast  of  the  chase  flying 
from  hunters,  lie  was  still  in  his  metempsychosis  no 
other  than  the  same  Monseigneur,  the  preparation  of 
whose  chocolate  for  whose  lips  had  once  occupied  three 
strong  men  besides  the  cook  in  question. 

Monseigneur  gone,  and  the  three  strong  men  absolving 
themselves  from  the  sin  of  having  drawn  his  high  wages, 
by  being  more  than  ready  and  willing  to  cut  his  throat 
on  the  altar  of  the  dawning  Republic  one  and  indivisible 
of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  Monseigneur’s 
house  had  been  first  sequestrated,  and  then  confiscated. 
For,  all  things  moved  so  fast,  and  decree  followed  de- 
cree with  that  fierce  precipitation,  that  now  upon  the 
third  night  of  the  autumn  month  of  September,  patriot 
emissaries  of  the  law  were  in  possession  of  Monseigneur’s 
house,  and  had  marked  it  with  the  tricolour,  and  were 
drinking  brandy  in  its  state  apartments. 

A place  of  business  in  London  like  Tellson’s  place  of 
business  in  Paris,  would  soon  have  driven  the  House  out 
of  its  mind  and  into  the  Gazette.  For,  what  would  staid 
British  responsibility  and  respectability  have  said  to 
orange-trees  in  boxes  in  a Bank  court-yard,  and  even  to 
a Cupid  over  the  counter?  Yet  such  things  were.  Tell- 
son’s had  whitewashed  the  Cupid,  but  he  was  still  to  be 
seen  on  the  ceiling,  in  the  coolest  linen,  aiming  (as  he 
very  often  does)  at  money  from  morning  to-night.  Bank- 
ruptcy must  inevitably  have  come  of  this  young  Pagan, 
in  Lombard-street,  London,  and  also  of  a curtained  al- 
cove in  the  rear  of  the  immortal  boy,  and  also  of  a look- 
ing-glass let  into  the  wall,  and  also  of  clerks  not  at  all 
old  who  danced  in  public  on  the  slightest  provocation. 
Yet,  a French  Tellson’s  could  get  on  with  these  things 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


229 


exceedingly  well,  and,  as  long  as  tlie  times  held  together, 
no  man  had  taken  fright  at  them,  and  drawn  out  his 
money. 

What  money  would  be  drawn  out  of  Tellson’s  hence- 
forth, and  what  would  lie  there,  lost  and  forgotten  ; 
what  plate  and  jewels  would  tarnish  in  Tellson’s  hiding- 
places,  while  the  depositors  rusted  in  prisons,  and  when 
they  should  have  violently  perished  ; how  many  ac- 
counts with  Tellson’s  never  to  be  balanced  in  this  world, 
must  be  carried  over  into  the  next ; no  man  could  have 
said,  that  night,  any  more  than  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  could, 
though  he  thought  heavily  of  these  questions.  He  sat 
by  a newly  lighted  wood  fire  (the  blighted  and  unfruit- 
ful year  was  prematurely  cold),  and  on  his  honest  and 
courageous  face  there  was  a deeper  shade  than  the 
pendent  lamp  could  throw,  or  any  object  in  the  room  dis- 
tortedly  reflect — a shade  of  horror. 

He  occupied  rooms  in  the  Bank,  in  his  fidelity  to  the 
House  of  which  he  had  grown  to  be  a part,  like  strong 
root-ivy.  It  chanced  that  they  derived  a kind  of  security 
from  the  patriotic  occupation  of  the  main  building,  but 
the  true-hearted  old  gentleman  never  calculated  about 
that.  All  such  circumstances  were  indifferent  to  him, 
so  that  he  did  his  duty.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
court-yard,  under  a colonnade,  was  extensive  standing 
for  carriages — where,  indeed,  some  carriages  of  Mon- 
seigneur yet  stood.  Against  two  of  the  pillars  were 
fastened  two  great  flaring  flambeaux,  and,  in  the  light 
of  these,  standing  out  in  the  open  air,  was  a large  grind- 
stone : a roughly  mounted  thing  which  appeared  to  have 
hurriedly  been  brought  there  from  some  neighbouring 
smithy,  or  other  workshop.  Rising  and  looking  out  of 
window  at  these  harmless  objects,  Mr.  Lorry  shivered, 
and  retired  to  his  seat  by  the  fire.  He  had  opened,  not 
only  the  glass  window,  but  the  lattice  blind  outside  it, 
and  he  had  closed  both  again,  and  he  shivered  through 
his  frame. 

From  the  streets  beyond  the  high  wall  and  the  strong 
gate,  there  came  the  usual  night  hum  of  the  city,  with 
now  and  then  an  indescribable  ring  in  it,  weird  and  un- 
earthly, as  if  some  unwonted  sounds  of  a terrible  nature 
were  going  up  to  Heaven. 

“Thank  God,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  clasping  his  hands, 
“ that  no  one  near  and  dear  to  me  is  in  this  dreadful 
town  to-night.  May  He  have  mercy  on  all  who  are  in 
danger l ” 

Soon  afterwards,  the  bell  at  the  great  gate  sounded, 
and  he  thought,  “ They  have  come  back  !”  and  sat  lis- 
tening. But,  there  was  no  loud  irruption  into  the  court- 
yard, as  he  had  expected,  and  he  heard  the  gate  clash 
again,  and  all  was  quiet. 


230 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  nervousness  and  dread  that  were  upon  him  in- 
spired that  vague  uneasiness  respecting  the  Bank,  which 
a great  charge  would  naturally  awaken,  with  such  feel- 
ings roused.  It  was  well  guarded,  and  he  got  up  to  go 
among  the  trusty  people  who  were  watching  it,  when  his 
door  suddenly  opened,  and  two  figures  rushed  in,  at  sight 
of  which  he  fell  back  in  amazement. 

Lucie  and  her  father  ! Lucie  with  her  arms  stretched 
out  to  him,  and  with  that  old  look  of  earnestness  so  con- 
centrated and  intensified,  that  it  seemed  as  though  it 
had  been  stamped  upon  her  face  expressly  to  give  force 
and  power  to  it  in  this  one  passage  of  her  life. 

“ What  is  this  ! ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  breathless  and  con- 
fused. “ What  is  the  matter  ? Lucie!  Manette  ! What 
has  happened  ? What  has  brought  you  here  ? What  is 
it  ? ” 

With  the  look  fixed  upon  him,  in  her  paleness  and 
wildness,  she  panted  out  in  his  arms,  imploringly,  " Q 
m.y  dear  friend.  My  husband  ! ” . 

“ Your  husband,  Lucie  ? ” 

“ Charles.” 

“ What  of  Charles  ? 99 

“ Here.” 

“ Here,  in  Paris  ? ” 

“ Has  been  here,  some  days — three  or  four — I don’t 
know  how  many — I can’t  collect  my  thoughts.  An  er- 
rand of  generosity  brought  him  here  unknown  to  us  ; 
he  was  stopped  at  the  barrier,  and  sent  to  prison.” 

The  old  man  uttered  an  irrepressible  cry.  Almost  at 
the  same  moment,  the  bell  of  the  great  gate  rang  again, 
and  a loud  noise  of  feet  and  voices  came  pouring  into 
the  court-yard. 

“ What  is  that  noise?”  said  the  Doctor,  turning  to- 
wards the  window. 

“ Don’t  look  ! ” cried  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Don’t  look  out  \ 
Manette,  for  your,  life,  don’t  touch  the  blinds  ! ” 

The  Doctor  turned,  with  his  hand  upon  the  fastening 
of  the  window,  and  said,  with  a cool  bold  smile  : 

“ My  dear  friend,  I have  a charmed  life  in  this  city.  I 
have  been  a Bastille  prisoner.  There  is  no  patriot  in  Paris 
—in  Paris?  In  France — who,  knowing  me  to  have  been  a 
prisoner  in  the  Bastille,  would  touch  me,  except  to  over- 
whelm me  with  embraces,  or  carry  me  in  triumph.  My 
old  pain  has  given  me  a power  that  has  brought  us  through 
the  barrier,  and  gained  us  news  of  Charles  there,  and 
brought  us  here.  I knew  it  would  be  so  ; I knew  I could 
help  Charles  out  of  all  danger  ; I told  Lucie  so. — What 
is  that  noise?  ” His  hand  was  again  upon  the  window. 

“ Don’t  look  ! ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  absolutely  desperate. 
“ No,  Lucie,  my  dear,  nor  you  ! ” He  got  his  arm  round 
her,  and  held  her.  “ Don’t  be  so  terrified,  my  love.  I 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


231 


solemnly  swear  to  you  that  I know  of  no  harm  hav- 
ing happened  to  Charles,  that  I had  no  suspicion  even, 
of  his  being  in  this  fatal  place.  What  prison  is  he 
in?” 

“La  Force?” 

“ La  Force  ! Lucie,  my  child,  if  ever  you  were 
brave  and  serviceable  in  your  life — and  you  were  al- 
ways both — you  will  compose  yourself  now,  to  do  ex- 
actly as  I bid  you  : for,  more  depends  upon  it  than  you 
can  think,  or  I can  say.  There  is  no  help  for  you  in 
any  action  on  your  part  to-night  ; you  cannot  possibly 
stir  out.  I say  this,  because  what  I must  bid  you  to 
do  for  Charles’s  sake,  is  the  hardest  thing  to  do  of  all. 
Fou  must  instantly  be  obedeient,  still,  and  qiuet. 
You  must  let  me  put  you  in  a room  at  the  back  here. 
You  must  leave  your  father  and  me  alone  for  two  min- 
utes, and  as  there  are  Life  and  Death  in  the  world 
you  must  not  delay.” 

“I  will  be  submissive  to  you.  I see  in  your  face 
that  you  know  I can  do  nothing  else  than  this.  I know 
you  are  true.” 

The  old  man  kissed  her,  and  hurried  her  into  his 
room,  and  turned  the  key  ; then,  came  hurrying  back  to 
the  Doctor,  and  opened  the  window  and  partly  opened 
the  blind,  and  put  his  hand  upon  the  Doctor’s  arm, 
and  looked  out  with  him  into  the  court -yard. 

Looked  out  upon  a throng  of  men  and  women  : not 
enough  in  number,  or  near  enough,  to  fill  the  court- 
yard : not  more  than  forty  or  fifty  in  all.  The  people 
in  possession  of  the  house  had  let  them  in  at  the  gate, 
and  they  had  rushed  in  to  work  at  the  grindstone  ; it 
had  evidently  been  set  up  there  for  their  purpose,  as 
in  a convenient  and  retired  spot. 

But,  such  awful  workers,  and  such  awful  work  ! 

The  grindstone  had  a double  handle,  and,  turning  at  it 
madly  were  two  men,  whose  faces,  as  their  long  hair 
flapped  back  when  the  whirlings  of  the  grindstone  brought 
their  faces  up,  were  more  horrible  and  cruel  than  the 
visages  of  the  wildest  savages  in  their  most  barbarous 
disguise.  False  eyebrows  and  false  moustaches  were 
stuck  upon  them,  and  their  hideous  countenances  were 
all  bloody  and  sweaty,  and  all  awry  with  howling,  and 
all  staring  and  glaring  with  beastly  excitement  and  want 
of  sleep.  As  these  ruffians  turned  and  turned,  their 
matted  locks  now  flung  forward  over  their  eyes,  now 
flung  backward  over  their  necks,  some  women  held 
wine  to  their  mouths  that  they  might  drink  ; and  wrhat 
with  dropping  blood,  and  what  with  dropping  wine,  and 
what  with  the  stream  of  sparks  struck  out  of  the 
stone,  all  their  wicked  atmosphere  seemed  gore  and  Are. 
The  eye  could  not  detect  one  creature  in  the  group,  free 


232 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


from  the  smear  of  blood.  Shouldering  one  another  to 
get  next  at  the  sharpening-stone,  were  men  stripped  to 
the  waist,  with  the  stain  all  over  their  limbs  and  bodies; 
men  in  all  sorts  of  rags,  with  the  stain  upon  those  rags  ; 
men  devilishly  set  off  with  spoils  of  women’s  lace  and 
silk  and  ribbon,  with  the  stain  dyeing  those  trifles  through 
and  through.  Hatchets,  knives,  bayonets,  swords,  all 
brought  to  be  sharpened,  were  all  red  with  it.  Some  of 
the  hacked  swords  were  tied  to  the  wrists  of  those  who 
carried  them,  with  strips  of  linen  and  fragments  of  dress: 
ligatures  various  in  kind,  but  all  deep  of  the  one  colour. 
And  as  the  frantic  wielders  of  these  weapons  snatched 
them  from  the  stream  of  sparks  and  tore  away  into  the 
streets,  the  same  red  hue  was  red  in  their  frenzied  eyes  ; 
— eyes  which  any  unbrutalised  beholder  would  have 
given  twenty  years  of  his  life,  to  petrify  with  a well-di- 
rected gun. 

All  this  was  seen  in  a moment,  as  the  vision  of  a drown- 
ing man,  or  of  any  human  creature  at  any  very  great  pass, 
could  see  a world  if  it  were  there.  They  drew  back  from 
the  window,  and  the  Doctor  looked  for  explanation  in 
his  friend’s  ashy  face. 

“ They  are,”  Mr.  Lorry  whispered  the  words,  glancing 
fearfully  round  at  the  locked  room,  “ Murdering  the 
prisoners.  If  you  are  sure  of  what  you  say  ; if  you  real- 
ly have  the  power  you  think  you  have — as  I believe  you 
have — make  yourself  known  to  these  devils,  and  get 
taken  to  La  Force.  It  may  be  too  late,  I don’t  know,  but 
let  it  not  be  a minute  later  ! ” 

Doctor  Manette  pressed  his  hand,  hastened  bareheaded 
out  of  the  room,  and  was  in  the  court-yard  when  Mr. 
Lorry  regained  the  blind. 

His  streaming  white  hair,  his  remarkable  face,  and 
the  impetuous  confidence  of  his  manner,  as  he  put  the 
weapons  aside  like  water,  carried  him  in  an  instant  to 
the  heart  of  the  concourse  at  the  stone.  For  a few  mo- 
ments there  was  a pause,  and  a hurry,  and  a murmur, 
and  the  unintelligible  sound  of  his  voice  ; and  then  Mr. 
Lorry  saw  him,  surrounded  by  all,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
line  twenty  men  long,  all  linked  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
and  hand  to  shoulder,  hurried  out  with  cries  of  “ Live 
the  Bastille  prisoner  ! Help  for  the  Bastille  prisoner’s 
kindred  in  La  Force  ! Room  for  the  Bastille  prisoner  in 
front  there  ! Save  the  prisoner  Evremonde  at  La  Force  ! ” 
and  a thousand  answering  shouts. 

He  closed  the  lattice  again  with  a fluttering  heart, 
closed  the  window  and  the  curtain,  hastened  to  Lucie, 
and  told  her  that  her  father  was  assisted  by  the  people, 
and  gone  in  search  of  her  husband.  He  found  her  child 
and  Miss  Pross  with  her  ; but,  it  never  occurred  to  him 
to  be  surprised  by  their  appearance  until  a long  time 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


238 


afterwards,  when  he  sat  watching  them  in  such  quiet  as 
the  night  knew. 

Lucie  had,  by  that  time,  fallen  into  a stupor  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet,  clinging  to  his  hand.  Miss  Pross  had 
laid  the  child  down  on  his  own  bed,  and  her  head  had 
gradually  fallen  on  the  pillow  beside  her  pretty  charge. 
O the  long,  long  night,  with  the  moans  of  the  poor  wife. 
And  0 the  long,  long  night,  with  no  return  of  her  fathei 
and  no  tidings  ! 

Twice  more  in  the  darkness  the  bell  at  the  great  gate 
sounded,  and  the  irruption  was  repeated,  and  the  grind- 
stone whirled  and  spluttered.  4 4 What  is  it?”  cried 
Lucie,  affrighted.  4 4 Hush!  the  soldiers’  swords  are 
sharpened  there,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  44  The  place  is  Na- 
tional property  now,  and  used  as  a kind  of  armoury,  my 
love.” 

Twice  more  in  all ; but  the  last  spell  of  work  was  fee- 
ble and  fitful.  Soon  afterwards  the  day  began  to  dawn, 
and  he  softly  detached  himself  from  the  clasping  hand, 
and  cautiously  looked  out  again.  A man,  so  besmeared 
that  he  might  have  been  a sorely  wounded  soldier  creep- 
ing back  to  consciousness  on  a field  of  slain,  was  rising 
from  the  pavement  by  the  side  of  the  grindstone,  and 
looking  about  him  with  a vacant  air.  Shortly,  this 
worn-out  murderer  descried  in  the  imperfect  light  one 
of  the  carriages  of  Monseigneur,  and,  staggering  to  that 
gorgeous  vehicle,  climbed  in  at  the  door,  and  shut  him- 
self up  to  take  his  rest  on  its  dainty  cushions. 

The  great  grindstone.  Earth,  had  turned  when  Mr. 
Lorry  looked  out  again,  and  the  sun  was  red  on  the 
court-yard.  But,  the  lesser  grindstone  stood  alone  there 
in  the  calm  morning  air,  with  a red  upon  it  that  the  sun 
had  never  given,  and  would  never  take  away. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Shadow. 

One  of  the  first  considerations  v Meh  arose  in  the 
business  mind  of  Mr.  Lorry  when  business  hours  came 
round,  was  this  : — that  he  had  no  right  to  imperil  Tell 
son’s  by  sheltering  the  wife  of  an  emigrant  prisoner 
under  the  Bank  roof.  His  own  possessions,  safety,  life, 
he  would  have  hazarded  for  Lucie  and  her  child,  with* 
out  a moment’s  demur  ; but  the  great  trust  he  held  was 
not  his  own,  and  as  to  that  business  charge  he  was  & 
strict  man  of  business. 

At  first,  his  mind  reverted  to  Hefarge,  and  he  thought 
of  finding  out  the  wine-shop  again,  and  taking  counsel 


234 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


yith  its  master  in  reference  to  the  safest  dwelling-place 
m the  distracted  state  of  the  city.  But,  the  same  con- 
sideration that  suggested  him,  repudiated  him  ; he  lived 
in  the  most  violent  Quarter,  and  doubtless  was  influen- 
tial there,  and  deep  in  its  dangerous  workings. 

Noon  coming,  and  the  Doctor  not  returning,  and  every 
minute’s  delay  tending  to  compromise  Tellson’s,  Mr. 
Lorry  advised  w ith  Lucie.  She  said  that  her  father  had 
spoken  of  hiring  a lodging  for  a short  term,  in  that  Quar- 
ter, near  the  Banking-house.  As  there  was  no  business 
objection  to  this,  and  as  he  foresaw  that  even  if  it  were 
all  well  with  Charles,  and  he  were  to  be  released,  he 
could  not  hope  to  leave  the  city,  Mr.  Lorry  went  out  in 
quest  of  such  a lodging,  and  found  a suitable  one,  high 
up  in  a removed  by-street  where  the  closed  blinds  in  all 
the  other  windows  of  a high  melancholy  square  of  build- 
ings marked  deserted  homes. 

To  this  lodging  he  at  once  removed  Lucie  and  her 
child,  and  Miss  Pross  : giving  them  what  comfort  he 
could,  and  much  more  than  he  had  himself.  He  left 
Jerry  with  them,  as  a figure  to  fill  a doorway  that  would 
bear  considerable  knocking  on  the  head,  and  returned  to 
his  own  occupations.  A disturbed  and  doleful  mind  he 
brought  to  bear  upon  them,  and  slowly  and  heavily  the 
day  lagged  on  with  him. 

It  wrore  itself  out,  and  wore  him  out  with  it,  until  the 
Bank  closed.  He  was  again  alone  in  his  room  of  the 
previous  night,  considering  what  to  do  next,  wrhen  he 
heard  a foot  upon  the  stair.  In  a few  moments,  a man 
stood  in  his  presence,  who,  with  a keenly  observant  look 
at  him,  addressed  him  by  his  name. 

“ Your  servant,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Do  you  know 
me?” 

He  was  a strongly  made  man  with  dark  curling  hair, 
from  forty-five  to  fifty  years  of  age.  For  answer  he  re 
peated,  without  any  change  of  emphasis.,  the  words: 

“ Do  you  know  me  V 9 

**  I have  seen  you  somewhere.  ” 

“ Perhaps  at  my  wine- shop  ? ” 

Much  interested  and  agitated,  Mr.  Lorry  said:  You 
come  from  Doctor  Manette  ? ” 

“ Yes.  I come  from  Doctor  Manette.” 

“ And  what  says  he  ? What  does  he  send  me  ? ” 

Defarge  gave  into  his  anxious  hand,  an  open  scrap  of 
paper.  It  bore  the  words  in  the  Doctor’s  writing, 

4 4 Charles  is  safe,  but  I cannot  safely  leave  this  place 
yet.  I have  obtained  the  favour  that  the  bearer  has  a 
short  note  from  Charles  to  his  wife.  Let  the  bearer  see 
his  wife.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


235 


It  was  dated  from  La  Force,  within  an  hour. 

“ Will  you  accompany  me,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  joyfully 
relieved  after  reading  this  note  aloud,  “ to  where  his  wife 
resides  ?” 

“ Yes,”  returned  Defarge. 

Scarcely  noticing,  as  yet,  in  what  a curiously  re- 
served and  mechanical  way  Defarge  spoke,  Mr.  Lorry 
put  on  his  hat  and  they  went  down  into  the  court-yard. 
There,  they  found  two  women,  one,  knitting. 

“Madame  Defarge,  surely  !”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had 
left  her  in  exactly  the  same  attitude  some  seventeen 
years  ago. 

“ It  is  she,”  observed  her  husband. 

“Does  Madame  go  with  us?”  inquired  Mr.  Lorry, 
seeing  that  she  moved  as  they  moved. 

“ Yes.  That  she  may  be  able  to  recognise  the  faces 
and  know  the  persons.  It  is  for  their  safety.  ” 

Beginning  to  be  struck  by  Defarge’s  manner,  Mr. 
Lorry  looked  dubiously  at  him,  and  led  the  way.  Both 
the  women  followed  ; the  second  woman  being  The 
Yengeance. 

They  passed  through  the  intervening  streets  as  quick- 
ly as  they  might,  ascended  the  staircase  of  the  new  dom- 
icile, were  admitted  by  Jerry,  and  found  Lucie  weeping, 
alone.  She  was  thrown  into  a transport  by  the  tidings 
Mr.  Lorry  gave  her  of  her  husband,  and  clasped  the  hand 
that  delivered  his  note — little  thinking  what  it  had 
been  doing  near  him  in  the  night,  and  might,  but  for  a 
'chance,  have  done  to  him. 

“ Dearest, — Take  courage.  I am  well,  and  your 
father  has  influence  around  me.  You  cannot  answer 
this.  Kiss  our  child  for  me.  ” 

That  was  all  the  writing.  It  was  so  much,  however, 
to  her  who  received  it,  that  she  turned  from  Defarge  to 
his  wife,  and  kissed  one  of  the  hands  that  knitted.  It 
was  a passionate,  loving,  thankful,  womanly  action,  but 
the  hand  made  no  response — dropped  cold  and  heavy, 
and  took  to  its  knitting  again. 

There  was  something  in  its  touch  that  gave  Lucie  a 
check.  She  stopped  in  the  act  of  putting  the  note  in  her 
bosom,  and,  with  her  hands  yet  at  her  neck,  looked  ter- 
rified at  Madame  Defarge.  Madame  Defarge  met  the 
lifted  eyebrows  and  forehead  with  a cold  impassive  stare. 

“My  dear,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  striking  in  to  explain; 
“ there  are  frequent  risings  in  the  streets  ; and,  although 
it  is  not  likely  they  will  ever  trouble  you,  Madame  De- 
farge wishes  to  see  those  whom  she  has  the  power  to 
protect  at  such  times,  to  the  end  that  she  may  know 
them — that  she  may  identify  them.  I believe,”  said  Mr. 


236 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Larry,  ratlier  halting  in  his  reassuring  words,  as  the 
stony  manner  of  all  the  three  impressed  itself  upon  him 
more  and  more,  “ I state  the  case,  Citizen  Defarge?” 

Dsfarge  looked  gloomily  at  his  wife,  and  gave  no 
other  answer  than  a gruff  sound  of  acquiescence. 

“ You  had  better,  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  doing  all  he 
could  to  propitiate,  by  tone  and  manner,  “ have  the  dear 
child  here,  and  our  good  Pross.  Our  good  Pross,  De- 
farge, is  an  English  lady,  and  knows  no  French.” 

The  lady  in  question,  whose  rooted  conviction  that  she 
was  more  than  a match  for  any  foreigner,  was  not  to  be 
shaken  by  distress  and  danger,  appeared  with  folded 
arms,  and  observed  in  English  to  The  Vengeance,  whom 
her  eyes  first  encountered,  “ Well,  I am  sure,  Boldface  ! 
I hope  you  are  pretty  well  ! ” She  also  bestowed  a 
British  cough  on  Madame  Defarge  ; but,  neither  of  the 
two  took  much  heed  of  her. 

“ Is  that  his  child  ? ” said  Madame  Defarge,  stopping  in 
her  work  for  the  first  time,  and  pointing  her  knitting, 
needle  at  little  Lucie  as  if  it  were  the  finger  of  Fate. 

“Yes,  madame,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry  ; “this  is  our 
poor  prisoner’s  darling  daughter  and  only  child.” 

The  shadow  attendant  on  Madame  Defarge  and  her 
party  seemed  to  fall  so  threatening  and  dark  on  the  child, 
that  her  mother  instinctively  kneeled  on  the  ground  be- 
side her,  and  held  her  to  her  breast.  The  shadow  at- 
tendant on  Madame  Defarge  and  her  party  seemed  then 
to  fall,  threatening  and  dark,  on  both  the  mother  and 
the  child. 

“It  is  enough,  my  husband,”  said  Madame  Defarge. 
“ I have  seen  them.  We  may  go.” 

But,  the  suppressed  manner  had  enough  of  menace  in 
it — not  visible  and  presented,  but  indistinct  and  withheld 
— to  alarm  Lucie  into  saying,  as  she  laid  her  appealing 
hand  on  Madame  Defarge’s  dress  : 

“ You  will  be  good  to  my  poor  husband.  You  will  do 
him  no  harm.  You  will  help  me  to  see  him  if  you  can  ?” 

“ Your  husband  is  not  my  business  here,”  returned 
Madame  Defarge,  looking  down  at  her  with  perfect  com- 
posure. “ It  is  the  daughter  of  your  father  who  is  my 
business  here.  ” 

“ For  my  sake,  then,  be  merciful  to  my  husband.  For 
my  child’s  sake  ! She  will  put  her  hands  together  and 
pray  you  to  be  merciful.  We  are  more  afraid  of  you 
than  of  these  others.  ” 

Madame  Defarge  received  it  as  a compliment,  and 
looked  at  her  husband.  Defarge,  who  had  been  uneasily 
biting  his  thumb-nail  and  looking  at  her,  collected  his 
face  into  a sterner  expression. 

“ What  is  it  that  your  husband  says  in  that  little  let- 
ter?” asked  Madame  Defarge,  with  a lowering  smile. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


237 


£e  Influence  ; he  says  something  touching  influence  V 9 

“ That  my  father/’  said  Lucie  hurriedly  taking  the  paper 
from  her  breast,  but  with  her  alarmed  eyes  on  her  ques- 
tioner and  not  on  it,  “ has  much  influence  around  him.  ” 

“ Surely  it  will  release  him  ! ” said  Madame  Defarge. 

‘ ‘ Let  it  do  so.  ” 

“ Asa  wife  and  mother,”  cried  Lucie,  most  earnestly, 
<f  I implore  you  to  have  pity  on  me  and  not  to  exercise 
any  power  that  you  possess,  against  my  innocent  bus- ' 
band,  but  to  use  it  in  his  behalf.  O,  sister-woman,  think 
of  me.  As  a wife  and  mother  ! ” 

Madame  Defarge  looked,  coldly  as  ever,  at  the  suppli- 
ant, and  said,  turn  mg  to  her  friend  The  Vengeance  : 

“ The  wives  and  mothers  we  have  been  used  to  see, 
since  we  wer  as  little  as  this  child,  and  much  less,  have 
not  been  greatly  considered  ? We  have  known  their  hus- 
b ds  and  fathers  laid  in  prison  and  kept  from  them, 
often  enough  ? All  our  lives,  we  have  seen  our  sister- 
women  suffer,  in  themselves  and  in  their  children,  pover- 
ty, nakedness,  hunger,  thirst,  sickness,  misery,  oppres- 
sion and  neglect  of  all  kinds  ? 99 

“We  have  seen  nothing  else,”  returned  The  Ven- 
geance. 

“We  have  borne  this  a long  time,”  said  Madame  De- 
farge, turning  her  eyes  again  upon  Lucie.  “ Judge  you  \ 
Is  it  likely  that  the  trouble  of  one  wife  and  mother  would 
be  much  to  us  now  ? ” 

She  resumed  her  knitting  and  went  but.  The  Ven- 
geance followed.  Defarge  went  last,  and  closed  the  door. 

“ Courage,  my  dear  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  he  raised 
her.  “ Courage,  courage  ! So  far  all  goes  well  with  us — ■ 
much,  much  better  than  it  has  of  late  gone  with  many 
poor  souls.  Cheer  up,  and  have  a thankful  heart.” 

<f  I am  not  thankless,  I hope,  but  that  dreadful  womans 
seems  to  throw  a shadow  on  me  and  on  all  my  hopes.” 

“ Tut,  tut  ! ” said  Mr.  Lorry  ; “ what  is  this  despond- 
ency in  the  brave  little  breast  ? A shadow  indeed  ! No 
substance  in  it,  Lucie.” 

But  the  shadow  of  the  manner  of  these  Defarges  was 
dark  upon  himself,  for  all  that,  and  in  his  secret  mind  it 
troubled  him  greatly. 


CHAPTER  TV. 

Calm  in  Storm. 

Doctou  Manette  did  not  return  until  the  morning  of 
the  fourth  day  of  his  absence.  So  much  of  what  had 
happened  in  that  dreadful  time  as  could  be  kept  from 
the  knowledge  of  Lucie  was  so  well  concealed  from  her, 
that  not  until  long  afterwards  when  France  and  she  were 


238 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


wide  apart,  did  she  know  that  eleven  hundred  defence' 
less  prisoners  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  had  been  killed 
by  the  populace  ; that  four  days  and  nights  had  been 
darkened  by  this  deed  of  horror  ; and  that  the  air  around 
her  had  been  tainted  by  the  slain.  She  only  knew  that 
there  had  been  an  attack  upon  the  prisons,  that  all  polit- 
ical prisoners  had  been  in  danger,  and  that  some  had 
been  dragged  out  by  the  crowd  and  murdered. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  the  Doctor  communicated  under  an  in 
junction  of  secrecy  on  which  he  had  no  need  to  dwell, 
that  the  crowd  had  taken  him  through  a scene  of  car- 
nage  to  the  prison  of  La  Force.  That,  in  the  prison  he 
had  found  a self-appointed  Tribunal  sitting,  before 
which  the  prisoners  were  brought  singly,  and  by  which 
they  were  rapidly  ordered  to  be  put  forth  to  be  massa- 
cred, or  to  be  released,  or  (in  a few  cases)  to  be  sent 
back  to  their  cells.  That,  presented  by  his  conductors 
to  this  Tribunal,  he  had  announced  himself  by  name  and 
profession  as  having  been  for  eighteen  years  a secret 
and  an  unaccused  prisoner  in  the  Bastille  ; that,  one  of 
the  body  so  sitting  in  judgment  had  risen  and  identified 
him,  and  that  this  man  was  Defarge. 

That,  hereupon  he  had  ascertained,  through  the  regis- 
ters on . the  table,  that  his  son-in-law  was  among  the 
living  prisoners,  and  had  pleaded  hard  to  the  Tribunal 
— of  whom  some  members  were  asleep  and  some  awake, 
some  dirty  with  murder  and  some  clean,  some  sober  and 
come  not — for  his  life  and  liberty.  That,  in  the  first 
frantic  greetings  lavished  on  himself  as  a notable  suf- 
ferer under  the  overthrown  system,  it  had  been  accorded 
to  him  to  have  Charles  Darnay  brought  before  the  law- 
less Court,  and  examined.  That,  he  seemed  on  the 
point  of  being  at  once  released,  when  the  tide  in  his 
favour  met  with  some  unexplained  check  (not  intelligible 
to  the  Doctor),  which  led  to  a few  words  of  secret  confer- 
ence. That  the  man  sitting  as  President  had  then  informed 
Doctor  Manette  that  the  prisoner  must  remain  in  custody, 
but  should,  for  his  sake,  be  held  inviolate  in  safe  custody. 
That,  immediately,  on  a signal,  the  prisoner  was  re- 
moved to  the  interior  of  the  prison  again  ; but,  that  he, 
the  Doctor,  had  then  so  strongly  pleaded  for  permission 
to  remain  and  assure  himself  that  his  son-in-law  was, 
through  no  malice  or  mischance,  delivered  to  the  con- 
course whose  murderous  yells  outside  the  gate  had  often 
drowned  the  proceedings,  that  he  had  obtained  the  per- 
mission, and  had  remained  in  that  Hall  of  Blood  uutil 
the  danger  was  over. 

The  sights  he  had  seen  there,  with  brief  snatches  of 
food  and  sleep  by  intervals,  shall  remain  untold.  The 
mad  joy  over  the  prisoners  who  were  saved,  had  as- 
tounded him  scarcely  less  than  the  mad  ferocity  against 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


239 


those  who  were  cut  to  pieces.  One  prisoner  there  was, 
lie  said,  who  had  been  discharged  into  the  street  free, 
but  at  whom  a mistaken  savage  had  thrust  a pike  as  he 
passed  out.  Being  besought  to  go  to  him  and  dress  the 
wound,  the  Doctor  had  passed  out  at  the  same  gate,  and 
had  found  him  in  the  arms  of  a company  of  Samaritans, 
who  were  seated  on  the  bodies  of  tlieir  victims.  With 
an  inconsistency  as  monstrous  as  anything  in  this  awful 
nightmare,  they  had  helped  the  healer,  and  tended  the 
wounded  man  with  the  gentlest  solicitude — had  made  a 
litter  for  him  and  escorted  him  carefully  from  the  spot 
‘-—had  then  caught  up  their  weapons  and  plunged  anew 
into  a butchery  so  dreadful,  that  the  Doctor  had  covered 
his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  swooned  away  in  the  midst 
of  it. 

As  Mr.  Lorry  received  these  confidences,  and  as  he 
watched  the  face  of  his  friend  now  sixty-two  years  of 
age,  a misgiving  arose  within  him  that  such  dread  ex 
periences  would  revive  the  old  danger.  But,  he  had 
never  seen  his  friend  in  his  present  aspect  ; he  had 
never  at  all  known  him  in  his  present  character.  For 
the  first  time  the  Doctor  felt,  now,  that  his  suffering 
was  strength  and  power.  For  the  first  time,  he  felt  that 
in  that  sharp  fire,  he  had  slowly  forged  the  iron  which 
could  break  the  prison  door  of  his  daughter’s  husband, 
and  deliver  him.  “ It  all  tended  to  a good  end,  my 
friend  ; it  was  not  mere  waste  and  ruin.  As  my  be- 
Lov&d  child  was  helpful  in  restoring  me  to  myself,  I will 
be  helpful  now  in  restoring  the  dearest  part  of  herself 
to  her  ; by  the  aid  of  Heaven  I will  do  it  ! y>  Thus, 
Doctor  Manette.  And  when  Jarvis  Lorry  saw  the  kindled 
eyes,  the  resolute  face,  the  calm  strong  look  and  bearing 
of  the  man  whose  life  always  seemed  to  him  to  have 
been  stopped,  like  a clock,  for  s©  many  years,  and  then 
set  going  again  with  an  energy  which  had  lain  dormant 
during  the  cessation  of  its  usefulness,  he  believed. 

Greater  things  than  the  Doctor  had  at  that  time  to 
contend  with,  would  have  yielded  before  liis  persevering 
purpose.  While  he  kept  himself  in  his  place,  as  a phy 
sician  whose  business  was  with  all  degrees  of  mankind, 
bond  and  free,  rich  and  poor,  bad  and  good,  he  used  his 
personal  influence  so  wisely,  that  he  was  soon  the  in- 
specting physician  of  three  prisons,  and  among  them  of 
La  Force.  He  could  now  assure  Lucie  that  her  husband 
was  no  longer  confined  alone,  but  was  mixed  with  the 
general  body  of  prisoners  ; he  saw  her  husband  weekly, 
and  brought  sweet  messages  to  her,  straight  from  his 
lips  ; sometimes  her  husband  himself  sent  a letter  to 
her  (though  never  by  the  Doctor’s  hand),  but  she  was 
not  permitted  to  write  to  him  ; for,  among  the  many 
wild  suspicions  of  plots  in  the  prisoners,  the  wildest  of 


240 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


all  pointed  at  emigrants  who  were  known  to  have  made 
friends  or  permanent  connexions  abroad. 

This  new  life  of  the  Doctor’s  was  an  anxious  life,  no 
doubt,  still,  the  sagacious  Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  there  was 
a new  sustaining  pride  in  it.  Nothing  unbecoming 
tinged  the  pride  ; it  was  a natural  and  worthy  one  ; but 
he  observed  it  as  a curiosity.  The  Doctor  knew,  that  up 
to  that  time,  his  imprisonment  had  been  associated  in 
the  minds  of  his  daughter  and  his  friend,  with  his  per- 
sonal affliction,  deprivation,  and  weakness.  Now  that 
this  was  changed,  and  he  knew  himself  to  be  invested 
through  that  old  trial  with  forces  to  which  they  both 
looked  for  Charles’s  ultimate  safety  and  deliverance,  lie 
became  so  far  exalted  by  the  change,  that  he  took  the  lead 
and  direction,  and  required  them  as  the  weak,  to  trust  to 
him  as  the  strong.  The  preceding  relative  positions  of 
himself  and  Lucie  were  reversed,  yet  only  as  the  live- 
liest gratitude  and  affection  could  reverse  them,  for  he 
could  have  had  no  pride  but  in  rendering  some  service 
to  her  who  had  rendered  so  much  to  him.  “ All  curious 
to  see,”  thought  Mr.  Lorry,  in  his  amiably  shrewd  way, 
“ but  all  natural  and  right : so,  take  the  lead,  my  dear 
friend,  and  keep  it ; it  couldn’t  be  in  better  hands.” 

But,  though  the  Doctor  tried  hard,  and  never  ceased 
trying,  to  get  Charles  Darnay  set  at  liberty,  or  at  least  to 
get  him  brought  to  trial,  the  public  current  of  the  time 
set  too  strong  and  fast  for  him.  The  new  Era  began  ; 
the  king  was  tried,  doomed,  and  beheaded  ; the  Repub- 
lic of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  declared 
for  victory  or  death  against  the  world  in  arms  ; the  black 
flag  waved  night  and  day  from  the  great  towers  of 
Notre-Dame  ; three  hundred  thousand  men,  summoned 
to  rise  against  the  tyrants  of  the  earth,  rose  from  all  the 
varying  soils  of  France,  as  if  the  dragon’s  teeth  had  been 
sown  broadcast,  and  had  yielded  fruit  equally  on  hill 
and  plain,  on  rock  in  gravel  and  alluvial  mud,  under  the 
bright  sky  of  the  South  and  under  the  clouds  of  the 
North,  in  fell  and  forest,  in  the  vineyards  and  the  oliv6 
grounds  and  among  the  cropped  grass  and  the  stubble  of 
the  corn,  along  the  fruitful  banks  of  the  broad  rivers, 
and  in  the  sand  of  the  sea-shore.  What  private  solid 
tude  could  rear  itself  against  the  deluge  of  the  Year  One 
of  Liberty— the  deluge  rising  from  below,  not  falling 
from  above,  and  with  the  windows  of  Heaven  shut,  not 
opened  ! 

There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  peace,  no  interval  of 
relenting  rest,  no  measurement  of  time.  Though  days 
and  nights  circled  as  regularly  as  when  time  was  young, 
and  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day, 
other  count  of  time  there  was  none.  Hold  of  it  was  lost 
in  the  raging  fever  of  a nation,  as  it  is  in  the  fever  of 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


241 


one  patient.  Now,  breaking  the  unnatural  silence  of  a 
whole  city,  the  executioner  showed  the  people  the  head 
of  the  king — and.  now,  it  seemed  almost  in  the  same 
breath,  the  head  of  his  fair  wife  which  had  had  eight 
weary  months  of  imprisoned  widowhood  and  misery,  to 
turn  it  grey. 

And  yet,  observing  the  strange  law  of  contradiction 
which  obtains  in  all  such  cases,  the  time  was  long,  white 
it  flamed  by  so  fast.  A revolutionary  tribunal  in  the 
capital,  and  forty  or  fifty  thousand  revolutionary  com- 
mittees all  over  the  land  ; a law  of  the  Suspected,  which 
struck  away  all  security  for  liberty  or  life,  and  delivered 
over  any  good  and  innocent  person  to  any  bad  and  guilty 
one  ; prisons  gorged  with  people  who  had  committed  no 
offence,  and  could  obtain  no  hearing  ; these  things  be- 
came the  established  order  and  nature  of  appointed 
things,  and  seemed  to  be  ancient  usage  before  they  were 
many  weeks  old.  Above  all,  one  hideous  figure  grew  as 
familiar  as  if  it  had  been  before  the  general  gaze  from 
the  . foundations  of  the  world — the  figure  of  the  sharp 
female  called  La  Guillotine., 

It  was  the  popular "tTieme  for  jests;  it  was  the  best 
cure  for  headache,  it  infallibly  prevented  the  hair  from 
turning  grey,  it  imparted  a peculiar  delicacy  to  the  com- 
plexion, it  was  the  National  Razor  which  shaved  close  . 
who  kissed  La  Guillotine,  looked  through  the  little  win- 
dow and  sneezed  into  the  sack.  It  was  the  sign  of  the 
regeneration  of  the  human  race.  It  superseded  the 
Cross.  Models  of  it  were  worn  on  breasts  from  which 
the  Cross  was  discarded,  and  it  was  bowed  down  to  and 
believed  in  where  the  Cross  was  denied. 

It  sheared  off  heads  so  many,  that  it,  and  the  ground 
it  most  polluted,  were  a rotten  red.  It  was  taken  to 
pieces,  like  a toy-puzzle  for  a young  Devil,  and  was  put 
together  again  when  the  occasion  wanted  it.  It  hushed 
the  eloquent,  struck  down  the  powerful,  abolished  the 
beautiful  and  good.  Twenty-two  friends  of  high  public 
mark,  tvrenty-one  living  and  one  dead,  it  had  lopped  the 
heads  off,  in  one  morning,  in  as  many  minutes. 

Among  these  terrors,  and  the  brood  belonging  to  them, 
the  Doctor  walked  with  a steady  head  : confident  in  his 
power,  cautiously  persistent  in  his  end,  never  doubting 
that  he  would  save  Lucie's  husband  at  last.  Yet  the 
current  of  t'he  time  swept  by,  so  strong  and  deep,  and 
carried  the  time  away  so  fiercely,  that  Charles  had  Iain 
in  prison  one  year  and  three  xnpnths  when  the  Doctor 
was  thus  steady  and  confident.  "So”m1Tch  more  wicked 
and  distracted  had  the  Revolution  grown  in  that  Decem- 
ber month,  that  the  rivers  of  tlfe  Foil  th  ‘ wefe~$ncum bered 
with  the  bodies  of  the  violently  drowned  by  night,  and 
prisoners  were  shot  in  lines  and  squares  under  the  south- 
-E  Vol.  11 


2 42 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


era  wintry  sun.  Still,  the  Doctor  walked  among  the  ter- 
rors with  a steady  head.  No  man  better  known  than  he,  in 
Paris  at  that  day  ; no  man  in  a stranger  situation.  Silent, 
humane,  indispensable  in  hospital  and  prison,  using  his 
art  equally  among  assassins  and  victims,  he  was  a man 
apart.  In  the  exercise  of  his  skill,  the  appearance  and 
the  story  of  the  Bastille  Captive  removed  him  from  all 
other  men.  He  was  not  suspected  or  brought  in  ques- 
tion, any  more  than  if  he  had  indeed  been  recalled  to 
life  some  eighteen  years  before,  or  were  a Spirit  moving 
among  mortals. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  Wood-Sawyer, 

One  year  and  three  months.  During  all  that  time 
Lucie  was  never  sure,  from  hour  to  hour,  but  that  the 
Guillotine  would  strike  off  her  husband’s  head  next  day. 
Every  day,  through  the  stony  streets,  the  tumbrils  now 
jolted  heavily,  filled  with  Condemned.  Lovely  girls  ; 
bright  women,  brown-haired,  black-haired,  and  grey  , 
youths  * stalwart  men  and  old  ; gentle  born  and  peasant 
born  ; all  red  wine  for  La  Guillotine,  all  daily  brought 
into  light  from  the  dark  cellars  of  the  loathsome  prisons, 
and  carried  to  her  through  the  streets  to  slake  her  de- 
vouring thirst.  Liberty,  equality,  fraternity,  or  death  ; 
—the  last,  much  the  easiest  to  bestow,  O Guillotine  ! 

If  the  suddenness  of  her  calamity,  and  the  whirling 
wheels  of  the  time,  had  stunned  the  Doctor's  daughter 
fnto  awaiting  the  result  in  idle  despair,  it  would  but 
have  been  with  her  as  it  was  with  many.  But,  from  the 
hour  when  she  had  taken  the  white  head  to  her  fresh 
young  bosom  in  the  garret  of  Saint  Antoine,  she  had  been 
true  to  her  duties.  She  was  truest  to  them  in  the  season 
of  trial,  as  all  the  quietly  loyal  and  good  will  always  be. 

As  soon  as  they  were  established  in  their  new  resi- 
dence. and  her  father  had  entered  on  the  routine  of  his 
avocations,  she  arranged  the  little  household  as  exactly 
as  if  her  husband  had  been  there.  Everything  had  its 
appointed  place  and  its  appointed  time.  Little  Lucie  she 
taught,  as  regularly,  as  if  they  had  all  been  united  in 
their  English  home.  The  slight  devices  with  which  she 
cheated  herself  into  the  show  of  a belief  that  they  would 
soon  be  reunited — the  little  preparations  for  his  speedy 
return,  the  setting  aside  of  his  chair  and  his  books— 
these,  and  the  solemn  prayer  at  night  for  one  dear  pris- 
oner especially,  among  the  many  unhappy  souls  in  prison 
and  the  shadow  of  death — wrere  almost  the  only  out- 
spoken reliefs  of  her  heavy  mind. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


243 


She  did  not  greatly  alter  In  appearance.  The  plain 
dark  dresses,  akin  to  mourning  dresses,  which  she  and 
her  child  wore,  were  as  neat  and  as  well  attended  to 
as  the  brighter  clothes  of  happy  days.  She  lost  her 
colour,  and  the  old  intent  expression  was  a constant,  not 
an  occasional,  thing  ; otherwise,  she  remained  very  pretty 
and  comely.  Sometimes,  at  night,  on  kissing  her  father, 
she  would  burst  into  the  grief  she  had  repressed  all  day, 
and  would  say  that  her  sole  reliance,  under  Heaven,  was 
on  him.  He  always  resolutely  answered  : “ Nothing  can 
happen  to  him  without  my  knowledge,  and  I know  that  | 
can  save  him,  Lucie.” 

They  had  not  made  the  round  of  their  changed  life, 
many  weeks,  when  her  father  said  to  her,  on  coming 
home  one  evening  : 

“My  dear,  there  is  an  upper  window  in  the  prison,  to 
which  Charles  can  sometimes  gain  access  at  three  in  the 
afternoon.  When  he  can  get  to  it — which  depends  on 
many  uncertainties  and  incidents — he  might  see  you  in 
the  street,  he  thinks,  if  you  stood  in  a certain  place  that 
I can  show  you.  But  you  will  not  be  able  to  see  him, 
my  poor  child,  and  even  if  you  could,  it  would  be  unsafe 
for  you  to  make  a sign  of  recognition.” 

“ 0 show  me  the  place,  my  father,  and  I will  go  there 
every  day.” 

From  that  time,  in  ail  weathers,  she  waited  there  two 
hours.  As  the  clock  struck  two,  she  was  there,  and  at 
four  she  turned  resignedly  away.  When  it  was  not  too 
wet  or  inclement  for  her  child  to  be  with  her,  they  went 
together  ; at  other  times  she  was  alone  ; but,  she  never 
missed  a single  day. 

It  was  the  dark  and  dirty  corner  of  a small  winding 
street.  The  hovel  of  a cutter  of  wood  into  lengths  for 
burning,  was  the  only  house  at  that  end  ; all  else  was 
wall.  On  the  third  day  of  her  being  there,  he  noticed 
her. 

“ Good  day,  citizeness.” 

“ Good  day,  citizen.” 

This  mode  of  address  was  now  prescribed  by  decree. 
It  had  been  established  voluntarily  some  time  ago, 
among  the  more  thorough  patriots  ; but,  it  was  now  law 
for  everybody. 

“Walking  here  again,  citizeness?” 

“ You  see  me,  citizen  ! ” 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  was  a little  man  with  a re 
dundancy  of  gesture  (he  had  once  been  a mender  ol 
roads),  cast  a glance  at  the  prison,  pointed  at  the  prison, 
and  putting  his  ten  fingers  before  his  face  to  represent 
bars,  peeped  through  them  jocosely. 

“But  it’s  not  my  business,”  said  he.  And  went  on 
sawing  his  wood. 


244 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Next  day,  lie  was  looking  out  for  her,  and  accosted 
her  the  moment  she  appeared. 

“ What  ! Walking  here  again,  citizeness  ? ” 

“Yes,  citizen.” 

“ Ah  ! A child  too  ! Your  mother,  is  it  not,  my  little 
citizeness  ? ” 

“Do  I say  yes,  mamma whispered  little  Lucie*, 
drawing  close  to  her. 

“ Yes,  dearest.” 

“ Yes,  citizen.” 

“Ah  ! But  it’s  not  my  business.  My  work  is  my 
business.  See  my  saw  ! I call  it  my  Little  Guillotine. 
La,  la,  la  ; La,  la,  la  ! And  off  his  head  comes  ! ” 

The  billet  fell  as  he  spoke,  and  he  threw  it  into  a 
basket. 

“ I call  myself  the  Sanson  of  the  firewood  guillotine. 
See  here  again  ! Loo,  loo,  loo  ; Loo,  loo,  loo  ! And  off 
her  head  comes  ! Now,  a child.  Tickle,  tickle  ; Pickle* 
pickle  ! And  off  its  head  comes.  All  the  family  J ” 

Lucie  shuddered  as  he  threw  two  more  billets  into  his 
basket,  but  it  was  impossible  to  be  there  while  the 
wood-sawyer  was  at  work,  and  not  be  in  his  sight. 
Thenceforth,  to  secure. his  good  will,  she  always  spoke 
to  him  first,  and  often  gave  him  drink-money,  which  he 
readily  received. 

He  was  an  inquisitive  fellow,  and  sometimes  when  she 
had  quite  forgotten  him  in  gazing  at  the  prison  roof  and 
grates,  and  in  lifting  her  heart  up  to  her  husband,  she 
would  come  to  herself  to  find  him  looking  at  her,  with 
his  knee  on  his  bench  and  his  saw  stopped  in  its  work. 
“ But  it’s  not  my  business  ! ”,  he  would  generally  say  at 
those  times,  and  would  briskly  fall  to  his  sawing  again. 

In  all  weathers,  in  the  snow  and  frost  of  winter,  in 
the  bitter  winds  of  spring,  in  the  hot  sunshine  of  sum- 
mer, in  the  rains  of  autumn,  and  again  in  the  snow  and 
frost  of  winter,  Lucie  passed  two  hours  of  every  day  at 
this  place  ; and  every  day,  on  leaving  it,  she  kissed  the 
prison  wall.  Her  husband  saw  her  (so  she  learned  from 
her  father)  it  might  be  once  in  five  or  six  times  ; it  might 
be  twice  or  thrice  running  ; it  might  be,  not  for  a week 
or  a fortnight  together.  It  was  enough  that  he  could 
and  did  see  her  when  the  chances  served,  and  on  that 
possibility  she  would  have  waited  out  the  day,  seven 
days  a week. 

These  occupations  brought  her  round  to  the  Decem- 
ber month,  wherein  her  father  walked  among  the  ter- 
rors with  a steady  head.  On  a lightly-snowing  afternoon 
she  arrived  at  the  usual  corner.  It  was  a day  of  some 
wild  rejoicing,  and  a festival.  She  had  seen  the  houses 
as  she  came  along,  decorated  with  little  pikes,  and  with 
little  red  caps  stuck  upon  them  ; also,  with  tricoloured 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


245 


ribbons  ; also,  with  the  standard  inscription  (tricoloured 
letters  were  the  favourite),  Republic  One  and  Indivisible, 
Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death  ! 

The  miserable  shop  of  the  wood-sawyer  was  so  small, 
that  its  whole  surface  furnished  very  indifferent  space 
for  this  legend.  He  had  got  somebody  to  scrawl  it  up 
for  him,  however,  who  had  squeezed  Death  in  with  most 
inappropriate  difficulty.  On  his  house-top,  he  displayed 
pike  and  cap,  as  a good  citizen  must,  and  in  a window 
he  had  stationed  his  saw,  inscribed  as  his  “ Little  Sainte 
Guillotine  ” — for  the  great  sharp  female  was  by  that 
time  popularly  canonised.  His  shop  was  shut  and  he 
was  not  there,  wTiich  was  a relief  to  Lucie,  and  left  her 
quite  alone. 

But  he  was  not  far  off,  for  presently  she  heard  a 
troubled  movement  and  a shouting  coming  along,  which 
filled  her  with  fear.  A moment  afterwards,  and  a throng 
of  people  came  pouring  round  the  corner  by  the  prison 
wall,  in  the  midst  of  whom  was  the  wood-sawyer  hand 
in  hand  with  The  Vengeance.  There  could  not  be  fewer 
than  five  hundred  people,  and  they  were  dancing  like 
five  thousand  demons.  There  was  no  other  music  than 
their  own  singing.  They  danced  to  the  popular  Revolu- 
tion song,  keeping  a ferocious  time  that  was  like  a 
gnashing  of  teeth  in  unison.  Men  and  women  danced 
together,  women  danced  together,  men  danced  together, 
as  hazard  had  brought  them  together.  At  first,  they 
were  a mere  form  of  coarse  red  caps  and  coarser  woollen 
rags  ; but,  a j they  filled  the  place,  and  stopped  to  dance 
about  Lucie,  some  ghastly  apparition  of  a dance-figure 
gone  raving  mad  arose  among  them.  They  advanced, 
retreated*  struck  at  one  another's  hands,  clutched  at  one 
another’s  heads,  spun  round  alone,  caught  one  another 
and  spun  round  in  pairs,  until  many  of  them  dropped. 
While  those  were  down,  the  rest  linked  hand  in  hand, 
and  all  spun  round  together  : then  the  ring  broke,  and 
in  separate  rings  of  two  and  four  they  turned  and  turned 
until  they  all  stopped  at  once,  began  again,  struck, 
clutched,  and  tore,  and  then  reversed  the  spin,  and  all 
spun  round  another  way.  Suddenly  they  stopped  again, 
paused,  struck  out  the  time  afresh,  formed  into  lines 
the  width  of  the  public  way,  and,  with  their  heads  low 
down  and  their  hands  high  up,  swooped  screaming  off. 
No  fight  could  have  been  half  so  terrible  as  this  dance. 
It  was  so  emphatically  a fallen  sport — a something,  once 
innocent,  delivered  over  to  all  devilry — a healthy  pas- 
time changed  into  a means  of  angering  the  blood,  be= 
wildering  the  senses,  and  steeling  the  heart.  Such  grace 
as  was  visible  in  it,  made  it  the  uglier,  showing  how 
warped  and  perverted  all  things  good  by  nature  were  be- 


246 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


come.  The  maidenly  bosom  bared  to  this,  the  pretty 
almost-child’s  head  thus  distracted,  the  delicate  foot 
mincing  in  this  slough  of  blood  and  dirt,  were  types  of 
the  disjointed  time. 

This  was  the  Carmagnole.  As  it  passed,  leaving 
Lucie  frightened  and  bewildered  in  the  doorway  of  the 
wood-sawyer’s  house,  the  feathery  snow  fell  as  quietly 
and  lay  as  white  and  soft,  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

‘ ‘ 0 my  father  ! ” for  he  stood  before  her  when  she 
lifted  up  the  eyes  she  had  momentarily  darkened  with 
her  hand  ; “ such  a cruel,  bad  sight.” 

“ I know,  my  dear,  I know.  I have  seen  it  many 
times.  Don’t  be  frightened  ! Not  one  of  them  would 
harm  you.” 

“I  am  not  frightened  for  myself,  my  father.  But 
when  I think  of  my  husband,  and  the  mercies  of  these 
people — ” 

“We  will  set  him  above  their  mercies,  very  soon.  I 
left  him  climbing  to  the  window,  and  I came  to  tell  you. 
There  is  no  one  here  to  see.  You  may  kiss  your  hand 
towards  that  highest  shelving  roof.  ” 

“ I do  so,  father,  and  I send  him  my  Soul  with  it  I ” 

“ You  cannot  see  him,  my  poor  dear  ?” 

“ No,  father,”  said  Lucie,  yearning  and  weeping  as 
she  kissed  her  hand,  “ no.” 

A footstep  in  the  snow.  Madame  Defarge.  “ I salute 
you,  citizen  ess,”  from  the  Doctor.  “ I salute  you,  citi- 
zen. ' This  in  passing.  Nothing  more.  Madame  De- 
farge gone,  like  a shadow'  over  the  w'hite  road. 

“ Give  me  your  arm,  my  love.  Pass  from  here  with 
an  air  of  cheerfulness  and  courage,  for  his  sake.  That 
was  well  done  ; 99  they  had  left  the  spot ; “it  shall  not 
be  in  vain.  Charles  is  summoned  for  to-morrow.” 

“ For  to-morrow  ? ” 

“ There  is  no  time  to  lose.  I am  w'ell  prepared,  but 
there  are  precautions  to  be  taken,  that  could  not  be 
taken  until  he  was  actually  summoned  before  the 
Tribunal.  He  has  not  received  the  notice  yet,  but  I 
know  that  he  will  presently  be  summoned  for  to-mor- 
row, and  removed  to  the  Conciergerie ; I have  timely  in- 
formation. You  are  not  afraid?” 

She,  could  scarcely  answer,  “ I trust  in  you.” 

“ Do  so,  implicitly.  Your  suspense  is  nearly  ended, 
my  darling  ; lie  shall  be  restored  to  you  within  a few 
hours  ; I have  encompassed  him  with  every  protection. 
I must  see  Lorry.” 

He  stopped.  There  was  a heavy  lumbering  of  wheels 
wdtliin  hearing.  They  both  knew  too  well  what  it 
meant.  One.  Two.  Three.  Three  tumbrils  faring 
away  with  their  dread  loads  over  the  hushing  snow. 


—A  Tale  off  Two  Cities,  Yol.  Eleven,  page  247. 


248 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


cc  I must  see  Lorry/’  tlie  Doctor  repeated,  turning  her 
another  way. 

The  staunch  old  gentleman  was  still  in  his  trust  ; had 
never  left  it.  He  and  Ms  books  were  in  frequent  requi- 
sition as  to  property  confiscated  and  made  national. 
What  he  could  save  for  the  owners,  he  saved.  Ho 
better  man  living  to  hold  fast,  by  what  Tellson’s  had  in 
keeping,  and  to  hold  his  peace, 

A murky  red  and  yellow  sky,  and  a rising  mist  from 
the  Seine,  denoted  the  approach  of  darkness.  It  was 
almost  dark  when  they  arri  ved  at  the  Bank.  The  stately 
residence  of  Monseigneur  was  altogether  blighted  and 
deserted.  Above  a heap  of  dust  and  ashes  in  the  court, 
ran  the  letters  : National  Property,  Republic  One  and 
Indivisible.  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  &r  Death. 

Who  could  that  be  with  Mr.  Lorry — the  owner  of  the 
riding-coat  upon  the  chair — who  must  not  be  seen? 
From  whom  newly  arrived,  did  he  come  out,  agitated 
and  surprised,  to  take  Ms  favourite  in  Ms  arms  ? To 
whom  did  he  appear  to  repeat  her  faltering  words,  when, 
raising  his  voice  and  turning  his  head  towards  the  door 
of  the  room  from  which  he  had  issued,  he  said  : x*  Re- 
moved to  the  Conciergerie.,  and  summoned  for  to- 
morrow,” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Triumph. 

The  dread  Tribunal  of  five  Judges,  Public  Prosecutor 
and  determined  Jury  sat  every  day.  Their  lists  went 
forth  every  evening,  and  were  read  out  by  the  gaolers 
of  the  various  prisons  to  their  prisoners.  The  standard 
gaoler- joke  was,  ■**  Come  out  and  listen  to  the  Evening 
Paper,  you  inside  there  !'” 

“Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay  !'” 

So,  at  last,  began  the  Evening  Paper  at  La  Force. 

When  a name  was  called,  its  owner  stepped  apart  into 
a spot  reserved  for  those  who  were  announced  as  being 
thus  fatally  recorded.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Dar- 
nay, had  reason  to  know  the  usage ; he  had  seen  hun- 
dreds pass  away  so. 

His  bloated  gaoler,  who  wore  spectacles  to  read  with, 
glanced  over  them  to  -assure  himself  that  he  had  taken 
Ms  place,  and  went  through  the  list,  making  a similar 
short  pause  at  each  name.  There  were  twenty-three 
names,  but  only  twenty  were  responded  to  ; for,  one  of 
the  prisoners  so  summoned  had  died  in  gaol  and  been 
forgotten,  and  two  had  been  already  guillotined  and  for- 
Q*otten.  The  list  was  read,  in  the  vaulted  chamber 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


249 


where  Darn  ay  had  seen  the  associated  prisoners  on  the 
night  of  his  arrival.  Every  one  of  those  had  perished  in 
the  massacre  ,*  every  human  creature  he  had  since  cared 
for  and  parted  with,  had  died  on  the  scaffold. 

There  were  hurried  words  of  farewell  and  kindness, 
but  the  parting  was  soon  over.  It  was  the  incident  of 
every  day,  and  the  society  of  La  Force  were  engaged  in 
the  preparations  of  some  games  of  forfeits  and  a little 
concert,  for  that  evening.  They  crowded  to  the  grates 
and  shed  tears  there  ; but,  twenty  places  in  the  projected 
entertainments  had  to  be  refilled,  and  the  time  was,  at 
best,  short  to  the  lock-up  hour,  when  the  common  rooms 
and  corridors  would  be  delivered  over  to  the  great  dogs 
who  kept  watch  there  through  the  night.  The  prisoners 
were  far  from  insensible  or  unfeeling  ; there  ways  arose 
out  of  the  condition  of  the  time.  Similarly,  though 
with  a subtle  difference,  a species  of  fervour  or  intoxi- 
cation, known,  without  doubt,  to  have  led  some  persons 
to  brave  the  guillotine  unnecessarily,  and  to  die  by  it, 
was  not  mere  boastfulness,  but  a wild  infection  of  the 
wildly  shaken  public  mind.  In  seasons  of  pestilence, 
some  of  us  will  have  a secret  attraction  to  the  disease — 
a terrible  passing  inclination  to  die  of  it.  And  all  of  us 
have  like  wonders  hidden  in  our  breasts,  only  needing 
circumstances  to  evoke  them. 

The  passage  to  the  Conciergerie  was  short  and  dark  ; 
the  night  in  its  vermin-haunted  ceils  was  long  and  cold. 
Next  day,  fifteen  prisoners  were  put  to  the  bar  before 
Charles  Darnay’s  name  was  called.  All  the  fifteen  were 
condemned,  d the  trials  of  the  whole  occupied  an 
hour  and  a half. 

“ Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,”  was  at  length 
arraigned. 

His  Judges  sat  upon  the  Bench  in  feathered  hats  ; but 
the  rough  red  cap  and  tricoloured  cockade  was  the  head- 
dress otherwise  pervailing.  Looking  at  the  jury  and 
the  turbulent  audience,  he  might  have  thought  that  the 
usual  order  of  things  was  reversed,  and  that  the  felons 
were  trying  the  honest  men.  The  lowest,  crudest,  and 
worst  populace  of  a city,  never  without  its  quantity  of 
low,  cruel,  and  bad,  were  the  directing  spirits  of  the 
scene  : noisily  commenting,  applauding,  disapproving, 
anticipating,  and  precipitating  the  result,  without  a 
check.  Of  the  men,  the  greater  part  were  armed  in  va- 
rious ways  ; of  the  women,  some  wore  knives,  some  dag- 
gers, some  ate  and  drank  as  they  looked  on,  many  knit- 
ted. Among  these  last,  was  one,  with  a spare  piece  of 
knitting  under  her  arm  as  she  worked.  She  was  in  a 
front  row,  by  the  side  of  a man  whom  he  had  never  seen 
since  his  arrival  at  the  Barrier,  but  whom  he  directly 
remembered  as  Defarge.  He  noticed  that  she  once  or 


250 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


twice  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  that  she  seemed  to  be 
hi 3 wife  ; hut,  what  he  most  noticed  in  the  two  figures 
was,  that  although  they  were  posted  as  close  to  himself 
as  they  could  be,  they  never  looked  towards  him.  They 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something  with  a dog;  od  de 
termination,  and  they  looked  at  the  Jury,  but  at  1*  ohing 
else.  Under  the  President  sat  Doctor  Manette,  in  his 
usual  quiet  dress.  As  well  as  the  prisoner  could  see,  he 
and  Mr.  Lorry  were  the  only  men  there,  unconnected 
with  the  Tribunal,  who  wore  their  usual  clothes,  and 
had  not  assumed  the  coarse  garb  of  the  Carmagnole. 

Charles  Evremonde.  called  Darnay,  was  accused  by 
the  public  prosecutor  as  an  emigrant,  whose  life  was 
forfeit  to  the  Republic,  under  the  decree  which  banished 
all  emigrants  on  pain  of  De:/fch.  It  was  nothing  that 
the  decree  bore  date  since  his  return  to  Prance.  There 
he  was,  and  there  was  the  decree  ; he  had  been  taken  in 
France,  and  his  head  was  demanded. 

“ Take  off  his  head  ! ” cried  the  audience.  “ An  en- 
emy to  the  Republic  ! ” 

The  President  rang  his  bell  to  silence  those  cries,  and 
asked  the  prisoner  whether  it  was  not  true  that  he  had 
lived  many  years  in  England  ? 

Undoubtedly  it  was. 

W as  he  not  an  emigrant  then  ? What  did  he  call  him- 
self ? 

Not  an  emigrant,  he  hoped,  within  the  sense  and 
spirit  of  the  law. 

Why  not  ? the  President  desired  to  know. 

Because  he  had  voluntarily  relinquished  a title  that 
was  distasteful  to  him,  and  a station  that  was  distasteful 
to  him,  and  had  left  his  country — he  submitted  before 
the  word  emigrant  in  the  present  acceptation  by  the 
Tribunal  was  in  use — to  live  by  his  own  industry  in 
England,  rather  than  on  the  industry  of  the  overladen 
people  of  France. 

What  proof  had  he  of  this  ? 

He'  handed  in  the  names  of  two  witnesses  : Theophile 
Gabelle,  and  Alexandre  Manette. 

But  he  had  married  in  England  ? the  President  re- 
minded him. 

True  but  not  an  English  woman. 

A citizeness  of  France  ? 

Yes.  By  birth. 

*gHer  name  and  family. 

“ Lucie  Manette,  only  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette, 
the  good  physician  who  sits  there.” 

This  answer  had  a happy  effect  upon  the  audience. 
Cries  in  exaltation  of  the  well-known  good  physician 
rent  the  hall.  So  capriciously  were  the  people  moved, 
that  tears  immediately  rolled  down  several  ferocious 


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251 


countenances  which  liad  been  glaring  at  the  prisoner  a 
•moment  before,  as  if  with  impatience  to  pluck  him  out 
into  the  street  and  kill  him. 

On  these  few  steps  of  his  dangerous  way,  Charles 
Darnay  had  set  his  foot  according  to  Doctor  Manette’s 
reiterated  instructions.  The  same  cautious  counsel 
directed  every  step  that  lay  before  him,  and  had  prepared 
every  inch  of  his  road . 

The  President  asked  why  he  had  returned  to  France 
when  he  did,  and  not  sooner  ? 

He  had  not  returned  sooner,  he  replied,  simply  because 
he  had  no  means  of  living  in  France,  save  those  he  had 
resigned ; whereas,  in  England,  he  lived  by  giving  in- 
struction in  the  French  language  and  literature.  He 
had  returned  when  he  did,  on  the  pressing  and  written 
entreaty  of  a French  citizen,  who  represented  that  his 
life  was  endangered  by  his  absence.  He  had  come  back 
to  save  a citizen’s  life,  and  to  bear  his  testimony,  at 
whatever  personal  hazard,  to  the  truth.  Was  that 
criminal  in  the  e : of  the  Republic  ? 

The  populace  cned  enthusiastically,  <fNo  ! ” and  the 
President  rang  his  bell  to  quiet  them.  Which  it  did 
not,  for  they  continued  to  cry  “ No  ! ” until  they  left 
off,  of  their  own  will. 

The  President  required  the  name  of  that  Citizen! 
The  accused  explained  that  the  citizen  was  his  first 
witness.  He  also  refen  -d  with  cofidence  to  the  citizen’s 
letter,  which  had  been  taken  from  him  at  the  Barrier, 
but  which  he  did  not  doubt  would  be  found  among  the 
papers  then  before  the  President. 

The  Doctor  had  taken  care  that  it  should  be  there — 
had  assured  him  that  it  wrould  he  there — and  at  thia 
sta  3 of  the  proceed  igs  it  was  produced  and  read. 

lzen  Gabel  le  wras  called  to  confirm  it,  and  did  so. 
Citizen  Gabelle  hinted,  with  infinite  delicacy  and  polite- 
ness,  that  in  the  pressure  of  business  imposed  on  th@ 
Tribunal  by  the  m titude  of  enemies  of  the  Republic 
Tith  wj  ich  he  had  to  deal,  he  had  been  slightly  over- 
1 oked  in  his  prison  of  the  Abbaye — in  fact,  had  rather 
passed  out  of  the  Tribunal’s  patriotic  remembrance— 
until  three  days  ago  ; when  he  had  been  summoned 
before  it,  and  had  been  set  at  liberty  on  the  Jury’s  de- 
claring themselves  satisfied  that  the  accusation  against 
him  was  answered,  as  to  himself,  by  the  surrender  of 
the  citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay. 

Doctor  Manette  was  next  questioned.  His  high  per- 
sonal popularity,  and  the  clearness  of  his  answers,  made 
a great  impression  ; but,  as  he  proceeded,  as  he  showed 
that  the  Accused  was  his  first  friend  on  his  release  from 
his  long  imprisonment ; that,  the  accused  had  remained 
in  England,  always  faithful  and  devoted  to  his  daughter 


252 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  himself  in  their  exile  ; that,  so  far  from  being  in  # 
favour  with  the  Aristocrat  government  there,  he  had 
actually  been  tried  for  his  life  by  it,  as  the  foe  of 
England  and  friend  of  the  United  States-— as  he  brought 
these  circumstances  into  view,  with  the  greatest  discre- 
tion and  with  the  straightforward  force  of  truth  and 
earnestness,  the  Jury  and  the  populace  became  one. 
At  last,  when  he  appealed  by  name  to  Monsieur  Lorry, 
an  English  gentleman  then  and  there  present,  who,  like 
himself,  had  been  a witness  on  that  English  trial  and 
could  corroborate  his  account  of  it,  the  Jury  declared 
that  they  had  heard  enough,  and  that  they  were  ready 
with  their  votes  if  the  President  were  content  to  receive 
them. 

At  every  vote  (the  Jurymen  voted  aloud  and  individ- 
ually), the  populace  set  up  a shout  of  applause.  All  the 
voices  were  in  the  prisoner’s  favour,  and  the  President 
declared  him  free. 

Then,  began  one  of  those  extraordinary  scenes  with 
which  the  populace  sometimes  gratified  their  fickleness, 
or  their  better  impulses  towards  generosity  and  mercy, 
or  which  they  regarded  as  some  set-off  against  their 
swollen  account  of  cruel  rage.  No  man  can  decide  now 
to  which  of  these  motives  such  extraordinary  scenes 
were  referable  ; it  is  probable,  to  a blending  of  all  the 
three,  with  the  second  predominating.  No  sooner  was 
the  acquittal  pronounced,  than  tears  were  shed  as  freely 
as  blood  at  another  time,  and  such  fraternal  embraces 
were  bestowed  upon  the  prisoner  by  as  many  of  both 
sexes  as  could  rush  at  him,  that  after  his  long  and  un- 
wholesome confinement  he  was  in  danger  of  fainting 
from  exhaustion  ; none  the  less  because  he  knew  very 
well,  that  the  very  same  people,  carried  by  another  cur- 
rent, would  have  rushed  at  him  with  the  very  same  in- 
tensity, to  rend  him  to  pieces  and  strew  him  over  the 
streets. 

His  removal,  to  make  way  for  other  accused  persons 
who  were  to  be  tried,  rescued  him  from  these  caresses 
for  the  moment.  Five  were  to  be  tried  together,  next, 
as  enemies  of  the  Republic,  forasmuch  as  they  had  not 
assisted  it  by  word  or  deed.  So  quick  was  the  Tribunal 
to  compensate  itself  and  the  nation  for  a chance  lost, 
that  these  five  came  down  to  him  before  he  left  the 
place,  condemned  to  die  within  twenty-four  hours.  The 
first  of  them  told  him  so,  with  the  customary  prison 
sign  of  Death — a raised  finger — and  they  all  added  in 
words,  “ Long  live  the  Republic  ! ” 

The  five  had  had,  it  is  true,  no  audience  to  lengthen 
their  proceedings,  for  when  he  and  Doctor  Manette 
emerged  from  the  gate,  there  was  a great  crowd  about 
it,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  every  face  he  had  seen 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


253 


in  Court— except  two;  for  which  he  looked  in  vain.  On 
his  coming  out,  the  concourse  made  at  him  anew,  weep- 
ing, embracing,  and  shouting,  all  by  turns  and  all  to- 
gether, until  the  very  tide  of  the  river  on  the  bank  of 
which  the  mad  scene  was  acted,  seemed  to  run  mad, 
like  the  people  on  the  shore. 

They  put  him  into  a great  chair  they  had  among  them, 
and  which  they  had  taken  either  out  of  the  Court  ftself, 
or  one  of  its  rooms  or  passages.  Over  the  chair  they 
had  thrown  a red  flag,  and  to  the  back  of  it  they  had 
bound  a pike  with  a red  cap  on  its  top.  In  this  car  of 
triumph,  not  even  the  Doctor’s  entreaties  could  prevent 
his  being  carried  to  his  home  on  men’s  shoulders,  with  a 
confused  sea  of  red  caps  heaving  about  him,  and  casting 
up  to  sight  from  the  stormy  deep  such  wrecks  of  faces, 
that  he  more  than  once  misdoubted  his  mind  being  in 
confusion,  and  that  he  was  in  the  tumbril  on  his  way  to 
the  Guillotine. 

In  wild  dreamlike  procession,  embracing  whom  they 
met  and  pointing  him  out,  they  carried  him  on.  Redden, 
ing  the  snowy  streets  with  the  prevailing  Repubiicar 
colour,  in  winding  and  tramping  through  them,  as  thej 
had  reddened  them  below  the  snow  with  a deeper  dye. 
they  carried  him  thus  into  the  court-yard  of  ih#*  building 
where  he  lived.  Her  father  had  gone  on  before  to  pre- 
pare her,  and  when  her  husband  stood  upon  his  feet, 
she  dropped  insensible  in  his  arms. 

As  he  held  her  to  his  heart  and  turned  her  beautiful 
head  between  his  face  and  the  brawling  crowd,  so  that 
his  tears  and  her  lips  might  come  together  unseen,  a 
few  of  the  people  fell  to  dancing.  Instantly  all  the 
rest  fell  to  dancing,  and  the  court-yard  overflowed  with 
the  Carmagnole.  Then,  they  elevated  into  the  vacant 
chair  a young  woman  from  the  crowd  to  be  carried  as 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  then,  swelling  and  over 
flowing  out  into  the  adjacent  streets,  and  along  the 
river’s  bank,  and  over  the  bridge,  the  Carmagnole  ab- 
sorbed them  every  one  and  whirled  them  away. 

After  grasping  the  Doctor’s  hand,  as  he  stood  victori- 
ous and  proud  before  him  ; after  grasping  the  hand  of 
Mr.  Lorry,  who  canio  panting  in  breathless  from  his 
struggle  against  the  water-spout  of  the  Carmagnole  ; 
after  kissing  little  Lucie,  who  was  lifted  up  to  clasp  her 
arms  round  his  neck  ; and  after  embracing  the  ever 
zealous  and  faithful  Pross  who  lifted  her ; he  took  his 
wife  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  up  to  their  rooms. 

* * Lucie  ! My  own  ! I am  safe.  ” 

'*0  dearest  Charles,  let  me  thank  God  for  this  on  my 
knees  as  I have  prayed  to  him.” 

They  all  reverently  bowed  their  heads  and  hearts* 
iYhen  she  was  again  in  his  arms,  he  said  to  her  : 


254 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ And  now  speak  to  your  father,  dearest.  No  other 
man  in  ail  this  France  could  have  done  what  he  has 
done  for  me.” 

She  laid  her  head  upon  her  father’s  breast  as  she  had 
laid  his  poor  head  on  her  own  breast,  long,  long  ago. 
He  was  happy  in  the  return  he  had  made  her,  he  was 
recompensed  for  his  suffering,  he  was  proud  of  his 
strength.  “You  must  not  be  weak,  mv  darling,”  he 
remonstrated;  “ don’t  tremble  so.  I have  saved  him.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A Knock  at  the  Door. 

“ I KAYE  saved  him.”  It  was  not  another  of  the  dreams 
in  which  he  had  often  come  back  ; he  was  really  here. 
And  yet  his  wife  trembled,  and  a vague  but  heavy  fear 
was  upon  her. 

All  the  air  around  was  so  thick  and  dark,  the  people 
were  so  passionately  revengeful  and  fitful,  the  innocent 
were  so  constantly  put  to  death  on  vague  suspicion  and 
black  malice,  it  was  so  impossible  to  forget  that  many 
as  blameless  as  her  husband  and  as  dear  to  others  as  he 
was  to  her,  every  day  shared  the  fate  from  which  he 
had  been  clutched,  that  her  heart  could  not  be  as  light- 
ened of  its  load  as  she  felt  it  ought  to  be.  The  shadows 
of  the  wintry  afternoon  were  beginning  to  fall,  and  even 
now  the  dreadful  carts  were  rolling  through  the  streets. 
Her  mind  pursued  them,  looking  for  him  among  the 
Condemned  ; and  then  she  clung  closer  to  his  real  pres- 
ence and  trembled  more. 

Her  father,  cheering  her,  showed  a compassionate 
superiority  to  this  woman’s  weakness,  which  was  won- 
derful to  see.  No  garret,  no  shoemaking,  no  One  Hun- 
dred and  Five,  North  Tower,  now  ! He  had  accom- 
plished the  task  he  had  set  himself,  his  promise  was 
redeemed,  he  had  saved  Charles.  Let  them  all  lean 
upon  him. 

Their  housekeeping  wras  of  a very  frugal  kind  : not 
only  because  that  was  the  safest  way  of  life,  involving 
the  least  offence  to  the  people,  but  because  they  were 
not  rich,  and  Charles,  throughout  his  imprisonment,  had 
had  to  pay  heavily  for  his  bad  food,  and  for  his  guard, 
and  towards  the  living  of  the  poorer  prisoners.  Partly 
on  this  account,  and  partly  to  avoid  a domestic  spy,  they 
kept  no  servant ; the  citizen  and  citizeness  who  acted 
as  porters  at  the  court-yard  gate,  rendered  them  occa 
sional  service  ; and  Jerry  (almost  wholly  transferred  to 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


255 


them  by  Mr.  Lorry)  had  become  their  daily  retainer,  and 
had  his  bed  there  every  night. 

It  was  an  ordinance  of  the  Republic  One  and  Indivisi 
ble  of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death*  that  oa 
the  door  or  doorpost  of  every  house,  the  name  of  every 
inmate  must  be  legibly  inscribed  in  letters  of  a certain 
size,  at  a certain  convenient  height  from  the  ground. 
Mr.  Jerry  Cruncher’s  name,  therefore,  duly  embellished 
the  doorpost  down  below  ; and, ns  the  afternoon  shadows 
deepened,  the  owner  of  that  name  himself  appeared, 
from  overlooking  a painter  whom  Doctor  Manette  had 
employed  to  add  to  the  list  the  name  of  Charles  Evre- 
monde,  called  Darnay. 

In  the  universal  fear  and  distrust  that  darkened  the 
time,  all  the  usual  harmless  ways  of  life  were  changed. 
In  the  Doctor’s  little  household,  as  in  very  many  others, 
the  articles  of  daily  consumption  that  were  wanted, 
were  purchased  every  evening,  in  small  quantities  and 
at  various  small  shops.  To  avoid  attracting  notice,  and 
to  give  as  little  occasion  as  possible  for  talk  and  envy, 
was  the  general  desire. 

For  some  months  past,  Miss  Pross  and  Mr.  Cruncher 
had  discharged  the  office  of  purveyors  ; the  former  car- 
rying the  money  ; the  latter,  the  basket.  Every  after- 
noon at  about  the  time  when  the  public  lamps . were 
lighted,  they  fared  forth  on  this  duty,  and  made  and 
brought  home  such  purchases  as  were  needful.  Although 
Miss  Pross,  through  her  long  association  with  a French 
family,  might  have  known  as  much  of  their*  language  as 
of  her  own,  if  she  had  had  a mind,  she  had  no  mind  in 
that  direction  ; consequently  she  knew  no  more  of  ‘‘that 
nonsense”  (as  she  was  pleased  to  call  it),  than  Mr. 
Cruncher  did.  So  her  manner  of  marketing  was  to  plump 
a noun-substantive  at  the  head  of  a shopkeeper  without 
any  introduction  in  the  nature  of  an  article,  and,  if  it 
happened  not  to  be  the  name  of  the  thing  she  wanted,  to 
look  round  for  that  thing,  lay  hold  of  it,  and  hold  on  by 
it  until  the  bargain  was  concluded.  She  always  made  a 
bargain  for  it, 'by  holding  up,  as  a statement  of  its  just 
price,  one  finger  less  than  the  merchant  held  up,  what- 
his  number  might  be. 

“Now,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  said  Miss  Pross,  whose  eyes 
were  red  with  felicity  ; “if  you  are  ready,  I am.” 

Jerry  hoarsely  professed  himself  at  Miss  Press’s  ser- 
vice. He  had  worn  all  his  rust  ofi  long  ago,  but  nothing 
would  file  his  spiky  head  down. 

“There’s  all  manner  of  things  wanted,”  said  Miss 
Pross,  “ and  we  shall  have  a precious  time  of  it.  We 
want  wine,  among  the  rest.  Nice  toasts  these  Redheads 
will  be  drinking,  wherever  we  buy  it.” 

e‘  It  will  be  much  the  same  to  your  knowledge,  miss, 


256 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I should  think,”  retorted  Jerry,  “ whether  they  drink 
your  health  or  the  Old  Un’s.” 

“ Who's  he?”  said  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher,  with  some  diffidence,  explained  himself 
as  meaning  “ Old  Nicks.” 

“ Ha  1 ” said  Miss  Pross,  “it  doesn’t  need  an  interpre- 
ter to  explain  the  meaning  of  these  creatures.  They  have 
but  one,  and  it’s  Midnight  Murder,  and  Mischief.” 

“ Hush,  dear  ! Pray,  pray  be  cautious  ! ” cried  Lucie. 

“ Yes,  yes,  yes,  I’ll  be  cautious,”  said  Miss  Pross  ; “ but 
I may  say  among  ourselves,  that  I do  hope  there  will  be 
no  oniony  and  tobaccoey  smotherings  in  the  form  of  em- 
bracings all  round,  going  on  in  the  streets.  Now,  Lady- 
bird, never  you  stir  from  that  fire  till  I come  back.  Take 
care  of  the  dear  husband  you  have  recovered,  and  don’t 
move  your  pretty  head  from  his  shoulder  as  you  have  it 
now,  till  you  see  me  again  ! May  I ask  a question,  Doc- 
tor Manette,  before  I go  ? ” 

“ I think  you  may  take  that  liberty,”  the  Doctor  an- 
swered, smiling. 

“ For  gracious  sake,  don’t  talk  about  Liberty  ; we  have 
quite  enough  of  that,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

“ Hush,  dear  ! Again?”  Lucie  remonstrated. 

“ Well,  my  sweet,”  said  Miss  Pross,  nodding  her  head 
emphatically,  “ the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  that  I am 
a subject  of  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  King  George  the 
Third  ; ” Miss  Pross  curtseyed  at  the  name  ; “ and  as 
such,  my  maxim  is,  Confound  their  politics,  Frustrate 
their  knavish  tricks,  On  him  our  hopes  we  fix,  God  save 
the  King  l ” 

Mr.  Cruncher,  in  an  access  of  loyalty,  growlingly  re- 
peated the  words  after  Miss  Pross,  like  somebody  at 
church. 

4 4 1 am  glad  you  have  so  much  of  the  Englishman  in 
you,  though  I wish  you  had  never  taken  that  cold  in  your 
voice,”  said  Miss  Pross,  approvingly.  “ But  the  ques 
tion,  Doctor  Manette.  Is  there  ” — it  was  the  good  crea* 
ture’s  way  to  affect  to  make  light  of  anything  that  was  a 
great  anxiety  with  them  all,  and  to  come  at  it  in  this 
chance  manner — “ is  there  any  prospect  yet,  of  our  get 
ting  out  of  this  place  ? ” 

“I  fear  not  yet.  It  would  be  dangerous  for  Charles 
yet.” 

‘ ‘ Heigh-ho-hum  ! ” said  Miss  Pross,  cheerfully  repres, 
sing  a sigh  as  she  glanced  at  her  darling’s  golden  hair  in 
the  light  of  the  fire,  “ then  we  must  have  patience  and 
wait  : that’s  all.  We  must  hold  up  our  heads  and  fight 
low,  as  my  brother  Solomon  used  to  say.  Now,  Mr. 
Cruncher  ! — Don’t  you  move,  Ladybird  !” 

They  went  out,  leaving  Lucie,  and  her  husband,  her 
father,  and  the  child,  by  a bright  fire,  Mr.  Lorry  was 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


257 


expected  back  presently  from  the  Banking  House.  Miss 
Pross  had  lighted  the  lamp,  but  had  put  it  aside  in  a cor- 
ner, that  they  might  enjoy  the  firelight  undisturbed.  Lit- 
tle Lucie  sat  by  her  grandfather  with  her  hands  clasped 
through  his  arm  ; and  he,  in  a tone  not  rising  much  above 
a whisper,  began  to  tell  her  a story  of  a great  and  pow- 
erful Fairy  who  had  opened  a prison- wall  and  let  out  a 
captive  who  had  once  done  the  Fairy  a service.  All  was 
subdued  and  quiet,  and  Lucie  wras  more  at  ease  than  she 
had  been. 

“ What  is  that  ! ” she  cried,  all. at  once. 

“ My  dear  i”  said  her  father,  stopping  in  his  story,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  hers,  “command  yourself.  What  a 
disordered  state  you  are  in  ! The  least  thing — nothing 
— startles  you.  You,  your  father’s  daughter  V* 

“ I thought,  my  father,”  said  Lucie,  excusing  herself, 
wTith  a pale  face  and  in  a faltering  voice,  “-that  I heard 
strange  feet  upon  the  stairs.” 

“My  love,  the  staircase  is  as  still  as  Death.” 

As  he  said  the  word,  a blow  was  struck  upon  the  door. 

“ 0 father,  father.  What  can  this  be  3 Hide  Charles. 
Save  him  ! ” 

“ My  child,”  said  the  Doctor,  rising  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  “ l have  saved  him.  What  weakness 
is  this,  my  dear  ! Let  me  go  to  the  door.  ” 

He  took  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  crossed  the  two  inter* 
vening  outer  rooms,  and  opened  it.  A rude  clattering  of 
feet  over  the  floors,  and  four  rough  men  in  red  caps, 
armed  with  sabres  and  pistols,  entered  the  room. 

“The  Citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,”  said  the 
first. 

“ Who  seeks  him  ?”  answered  Darnay. 

“ I seek  him.  We  seek  him.  I know  you,  Evremonde ; 
I saw  you  before  the  Tribunal  to-day.  You  are  again 
the  prisoner  of  the  Republic.” 

The  four  surrounded  him,  where  he  stood  with  his  wife 
and  child  clinging  to  him. 

“ Tell  me  how  and  why  I am  again  a prisoner  ? ” 

“ It  is  enough  that  you  return  straight  to  the  Concier- 
gerie,  and  witfl  know  to-morrow.  You  are  summoned 
for  to-morrow.” 

Dr.  Manette,  whom  this  visitation  had  so  turned  into 
stone,  that  he  stood  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  as  if  he 
were  a sfcatue  made  to  hold  it,  moved  after  these  words 
were  spoken,  put  the  lamp  down,  and  confronting  the 
speaker,  and  taking  him,  not  ungently,  by  the  loose  front 
of  his  red  woollen  shirt,  said  : 

“ You  know  him,  you  have  said.  Do  you  know  me?” 

“ Yes,  I know  you.  Citizen  Doctor.” 

“We  all  know  you,  Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  other 
three. 


258 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  looked  abstractedly  from  one  to  another,  and  said, 
in  a lower  voice,  after  a pause  : 

“ Will  you  answer  his  question  to  me  then  ? How 
does  this- happen  ? ” 

“ Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  first,  reluctantly  ; “he  has 
been  denounced  to  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine.  This 
citizen,”  pointing  out  the  second  who  had  entered,  “ is 
from  Saint  Antoine.  * 

The  citizen  here  indicated  nodded  his  head,  and 
added  •. 

“ He  is  accused  by  Saint  Antoine.” 

“ Of  what?  ” asked  the  Doctor. 

“ Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  first,  with  his  former  re- 
luctance, “ ask  no  more.  If  the  Republic  demands  sac- 
rifices from  you,  without  doubt  you  as  a good  patriot 
will  be  happy  to  make  them.  The  Republic  goes  before 
all.  The  People  is  supreme.  Evremonde,  we  are 
pressed.” 

“ One  word,”  the  Doctor  entreated.  “Will  you  tell 
me  who  denounced  him  ? ” 

“ It  is  against  rule,”  answered  the  first ; “ but  you  can 
ask  Him  of  Saint  Antoine  here.  ” 

The  Doctor  turned  his  eyes  upon  that  man.  Who 
moved  uneasily  on  his  feet,  rubbed  his  beard  a little, 
and  at  length  said  : 

“ Well  ! Truly  it  is  against  rule.  But  he  is  de- 
nounced— and  gravely — by  the  Citizen  and  Citizeness 
Defarge.  And  by  one  other.” 

“ What  other  ? ” 

“ Do  you  ask,  Citizen  Doctor  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then,”  said  he.  of  Saint  Antoine,  with  a strange 
look,  “ you  will  be  answered  to-morrow.  Now,  I am 
dumb  ! ” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A Hand  at  Cards. 

Happily  unconscious  of  the  new  calamity  at  home. 
Miss  Pross  threaded  her  way  along  the  narrow  streets 
and  crossed  the  river  by  the  bridge  of  the  Pont-Neuf, 
reckoning  in  her  mind  the  number  of  indispensable  pur- 
chases she  had  to  make.  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  the  basket, 
walked  at  her  side.  They  both  looked  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left  into  most  of  the  shops  they  passed,  had  a 
wary  eye  for  all  gregarious  assemblages  of  people,  and 
turned  out  of  their  road  to  avoid  any  very  excited  group  of 
talkers.  It  was  a raw  evening,  and  the  misty  river, 
blurred  to  the  eye  with  blazing  lights,  and  to  the  ear 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


259 


with  "harsh  noises,  showed  where  the  "barges  were 
stationed  in  which  the  smiths  worked,  making  guns  for 
the  Army  of  the  Republic.  Woe  to  the  man  who  played 
tricks  with  that  Army,  or  got  undeserved  promotion  in 
it  ! Better  for  him  that  his  beard  had  never  grown,  for 
the  National  Razor  shaved  him  close. 

Having  purchased  a few  small  articles  of  grocery,  and 
a measure  of  oil  for  the  lamp.  Miss  Pross  bethought  her- 
self  of  the  wine  they  wanted.  After  peeping  into  sev- 
eral wine-shops,  she  stopped  at  the  sign  of  The  Good 
Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  not  far  from  the  Na- 
tional Palace,  once  (and  twice)  the  Tuil cries,  where  the 
aspect  of  things  rather  took  her  fancy.  It  a had  quieter 
look  than  any  other  place  of  the  same  description  they 
had  passed,  and,  though  red  with  patriotic  caps,  was  not 
so  red  as  the  rest.  Sounding  Mr.  Cruncher  and  finding 
him  of  her  opinion,  Miss  Pross  resorted  to  the  Good  Re- 
publican Brutus  of  Antiquity,  attended  by  her  cavalier. 

Slightly  observant  of  the  smoky  lights  ; of  the  people 
pipe  in  mouth,  playing  with  limp  cards  and  yellow  dom« 
inoes  ; of  the  one  bare- breasted,  bare-armed,  soot-be- 
grimed workman  reading  a journal  aloud,  and  of  the 
others  listening  to  him  ; of  the  weapons  worn,  or  laid 
aside  to  be  resumed  ; of  the  two  or  three  customers 
fallen  forward  asleep,  who  in  the  popular,  high -shoul- 
dered, shaggy  black  spencer  looked,  in  that  attitude, 
like  slumbering  bears  or  dogs  ; the  two  outlandish  cus- 
tomers approached  the  counter,  and  showed  what  they 
wanted. 

As  their  wine  was  measuring  out,  a man  parted  from 
another  man  in  a corner,  and  rose  to  depart.  In  going, 
he  had  to  face  Miss  Pross.  No  sooner  did  he  face  her, 
than  Miss  Pross  uttered  a scream,  and  clapped  her 
hands. 

In  a moment,  the  whole  company  were  on  their  feet. 
That  somebody  was  assassinated  by  somebody  vindica- 
ting a difference  of  opinion,  was  the  likeliest  occurrence. 
Everybody  looked  to  see  somebody  fall,  but  only  saw  a 
man  and  women  standing  staring  at  each  other  ; the  man 
with  all  the  outward  aspect  of  a Frenchman  and  a 
thorough  Republican  ; the  woman,  evidently  English. 

What  was  said  in  this  disappointing  anti-climax,  by 
the  disciples  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity, 
except  that  it  was  something  very  voluble  and  loud, 
would  have  been  as  so  much  Hebrew  or  Chaldean  to  Miss 
Pross  and  her  protector,  though  they  had  been  all  ears. 
But,  they  had' no  ears  for  anything  in  their  surprise. 
•For  it  must  be  recorded,  that  not  only  was  Miss  Pross 
lost  in  amazement  and  agitation  ; but,  Mr.  Cruncher — 
though  it  seemed  on  his  own  separate  and  individual  ac- 
count— was  in  a state  of  the  greatest  wonder. 


280 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ What  is  the  matter  ? ” said  the  man  who  had  caused 
Miss  Pross  to  scream  ; speaking  in  a vexed  abrupt  voice 
(though  in  a low  tone),  and  in  English. 

“ Oh,  Solomon,  dear  Solomon  ! ” cried  Miss  Pross,  clap- 
ping her  hands  again.  - “ After  not  setting  eyes  upon 
you  or  hearing  of  you  for  so  long  a time,  do  I find  you 
here  ! ” 

“ Don’t  call  me  Solomon.  Do  you  want  to  he  the 
death  of  me  ? ” asked  the  man,  in  a furtive  frightened 
way. 

“ Brother,  brother  ! ” cried  Miss  Pross*  bursting  into 
tears.  ‘ ‘ Have  I ever  been  so  hard  with  you  that  you  ask 
me  such  a cruel  question  ! ” 

“ Then  hold  your  meddlesome  tongue,”  said  Solomon, 
“ and  come  out,  if  you  want  to  speak  to  me.  Pay  for 
your  wine,  and  come  out.  Who’s  this  man  ? ” 

Miss  Pross  shaking  her  loving  and  dejected  head  at 
her  by  no  means  affectionate  brother,  said,  through  her 
tears,  “Mr.  Cruncher.” 

“ Let  him  come  out  too,”  said  Solomon.  “ Does  he 
think  me  a ghost  ? ” 

Apparently,  Mr.  Cruncher  did,  to  judge  from  his  looks. 
He  said  not  a word,  however,  and  Miss  Pross,  exploring 
the  depths  of  her  reticule  through  her  tears  with  great 
difficulty,  paid  for  the  wine.  As  she  did  so,  Solomon 
turned  to  the  followers  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus 
of  Antiquity,  and  offered  a few  words  of  explanation  in 
the  French  language,  which  caused  them  all  to  relapse 
into  their  former  places  and  pursuits. 

“ Now,”  said  Solomon,  stopping  at  the  dark  street  cor- 
ner, “ what  do  you  want  ? ” 

“ How  dreadfully  unkind  in  a brother  nothing  has  ever 
turned  my  love  away  from  ! ” cried  Miss  Pross,  “ to  give 
me  such  a greeting,  and  show  me  no  affection.” 

“ There.  Con-found  it  ! There,”  said  Solomon,  mak- 
ing a dab  at  Miss  Pross’s  lips  with  his  own.  “ Now  are 
you  content?  ” 

Miss  Pross  only  shook  her  head  and  wept  in  silence. 

“ If  you  expect  me  to  be  surprised,”  said  her  brother 
Solomon,  “ I am  not  surprised,”  I knew  you  were  here  ; 
I know  of  most  people  who  are  here.  If  you  really  don’t 
want  to  endanger  my  existence — which  I half  believe 
you  do — go  your  ways  as  soon  as  possible,  and  let  me  go 
mine.  I am  busy.  I am  an  official.” 

“ My  English  brother  Solomon,”  mourned  Miss  Pross, 
casting  up  her  tear-fraught  eyes,  “ that  had  the  makings 
in  him  of  one  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  men  in  his  na- 
tive country,  an  official  among  foreigners,  and  such  for- 
eigners ! I would  almost  sooner  have  seen  the  dear  boy’ 
lying  in  his — ” 

“I  said  so!”  cried  her  brother,  interrupting.  “I 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


261 


knew  it  I You  want  to  be  tbe  death  of  me.  I shall 
be  rendered  Suspected,  by  my  own  sister.  Just  as  I am 
getting  on  ! ” 

- The  gracious  and  merciful  Heavens  forbid  ! ” cried 
Miss  Pross.  - Far  rather  would  I never  see  you  again, 
dear  Solomon,  though  I have  ever  loved  you  truly,  and 
ever  shall.  Say  but  one  affectionate  word  to  me,  and 
tell  me  there  is  nothing  angry  or  estranged  between  us, 
and  I will  detain  you  no  longer.” 

Good  Miss  Pross  ! As  if  the  estrangement  between 
them  had  come  of  any  culpability  of  hers.  As  if  Mr. 
Lorry  had  not  known  it  for  a fact,  years  ago,  in  the  quiet 
corner  in  Soho,  that  this  precious  brother  had  spent  her 
money  and  left  her  ! 

He  was  saying  the  affectionate  word,  however,  with  a 
far  more  grudging  condescension  and  patronage  than  he 
could  have  shown  if  their  relative  merits  and  positions 
had  been  reversed  (which  is  invariably  the  case,  all  the 
world  over),  when  Mr.  Cruncher,  touching  him  on  the 
shoulder,  hoarsely  and  unexpectedly  interposed  with  the 
following  singular  question  : 

“ I say  ! Might  I ask  the  favour  ? As  to  whether 
your  name  is  John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John  ? ” 

The  official  turned  towards  him  with  sudden  distrust. 
He  had  not  previously  uttered  a word. 

- Come  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher.  - Speak  out,  you  know/* 
(Which,  by  the  way,  was  more  than  he  could  do  him- 
self.) - John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John  ? She  calls  you 
Solomon,  and  she  must  know,  being  your  sister.  And  1 
know  you’re  John,  you  know.  Which  of  the  two  goes 
first  ? And  regarding  that  name  of  Pross,  likewise. 
That  warn’t  your  name  over  the  water.” 

- What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ Well,  I don’t  know  all  I mean,  for  I can’t  call  to 
inind  what  your  name  was,  over  the  water.” 

-No?” 

-No.  But  I’ll  swear  it  was  a name  of  two  syllables.” 

- Indeed  ? ” 

-Yes.  T’other  one’s  was  one  syllable.  I know  you. 
You  was  a spy-witness  at  the  Bailey.  What  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  of  Lies,  own  father  to  yourself,  wras  you 
called  at  that  time?” 

- Barsad,”  said  another  voice,  striking  in. 

- That’s  the  name  for  a thousand  pound  ! ” cried  Jerry. 

The  speaker  who  struck  in,  was  Sydney  Carton.  He 

had  his  hands  behind  him  under  the  skirts  of  his  riding- 
coat,  and  he  stood  at  Mr.  Cruncher’s  elbow  as  negligently 
as  he  might  have  stood  at  the  Old  Bailey  itself. 

- Don’t  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Miss  Pross.  I arrived  at 
Mr.  Lorry’s,  to  his  surprise,  yesterday  evening ; we 
agreed  that  I wrould  not  present  myself  elsewhere  until 


262 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


all  was  well,  or  unless  I could  be  useful ; I present  my- 
self here,  to  beg  a little  talk  with  your  brother.  I wish 
you  had  a better  employed  brother  than  Mr.  Barsad.  I 
wish  for  your  sake  Mr.  Barsad  was  not  a Sheep  of  the 
Prisons.  ” 

Sheep  was  a cant  word  of  the  time  for  a spy,  under 
the  gaolers.  The  spy,  who  was  pale,  turned  paler,  and 
asked  him  how  he  dared — 

“ ril  tell  you,”  said  Sydney.  “I  lighted  on  you,  Mr. 
Barsad,  coming  out  of  the  prison  of  the  Conciergerie 
while  I was  contemplating  the  walls,  an  hour  or  more 
ago.  You  have  a face  to  be  remembered,  and  i remem- 
ber faces  well.  Made  curious  by  seeing  you  in  that 
connexion,  and  having  a reason,  to  which  you  are  no 
stranger,  for  associating  you  with  the  misfortunes  of  a 
friend  now  very  unfortunate,  I walked  in  your  direction. 
I walked  into  the  wine-shop  here,  close  after  you,  and 
sat  near  you.  I had  no  difficulty  in  deducing  from  your 
unreserved  conversation,  and  the  rumour  openly  going 
about  among  your  admirers,  the  nature  of  your  calling. 
And  gradually,  what  I had  done  at  random,  seemed  to 
shape  itself  into  a purpose,  Mr.  Barsad.” 

“ What  purpose  ? ” the  spy  asked. 

f It  would  be  troublesome,  and  might  be  dangerous, 
to  explain  in  the  street.  Could  you  favour  me,  in  con- 
fidence, with  some  minutes  of  your  company-— *at  the 
office  of  Tellson’s  Bank,  for  instance  ?’ 

“ Under  a threat  ?” 

“ Oh  ! Did  I say  that ! ” 

“ Then  why  should  I go  there  ? ” 

“ Really,  Mr.  Barsad,  I can’t  say,  if  you  can’t.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  you  won’t  say,  sir?”  the  spy  ir- 
resolutely asked. 

“ You  apprehend  me  very  clearly,  Mr.  Barsad.  I 
won’t.” 

Carton’s  negligent  recklessness  of  manner  came  power- 
fully in  aid  of  his  quickness  and  skill,  in  such  a business 
as  he  had  in  his  secret  mind,  and  with  such  a man  as  he 
had  to  do  with.  His  practised  eye  saw  it,  and  made  the 
most  of  it. 

“ Now,  I told  you  so,”  said  the  spy,  casting  a re- 
proachful look  at  his  sister  ; “ if  any  trouble  comes  of 
this,  it’s  your  doing.” 

“Come,  come,  Mr.  Barsad!”  exclaimed  Sydney. 
“ Don’t  be  ungrateful.  But  for  my  great  respect  for 
your  sister,  I might  not  have  led  up  so  pleasantly  to  a 
little  proposal  that  I wish  to  make  for  our  mutual  satis- 
faction. Do  you  go  with  me  to  the  Bank  ? ” 

“ I’ll  hear  what  you  have  got  to  say.  Yes,  I’ll  go  with 
you.” 

“I  propose  that  we  first  conduct  your  sister  safely  to 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


263 


the  corner  of  her  own  street.  Let  me  take  your  arm, 
Miss  Pross.  This  is  ^iot  a good  city,  at  this  time,  for  yon 
to  be  out  in,  unprotected  ; and  as  your  escort  knows  Mrt/ 
Barsad,  I will  invite  him  to  Mr.  Lorry's  with  us.  Are 
We  ready?  Come  then  ! " 

Miss  Pross  recalled  soon  afterwards,  and  to  the  end  of 
her  life  remembered,  that  as  she  pressed  her  hands  on 
Sydney's  arm  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  imploring  him 
to  do  no  hurt  to  Solomon,  there  was  a braced  purpose  in 
the  arm  and  a kind  of  inspiration  in  the  eyes,  which  not 
only  contradicted  his  light  manner,  but  changed  and 
raised  the  man.  She  was  too  much  occupied  then,  with 
fears  for  the  brother  who  so  little  deserved  her  affection, 
and  with  Sydney's  friendly  reassurances,  adequately  to 
heed  what  she  observed. 

They  left  her  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  Carton 
led  the  way  to  Mr.  Lorry's,  which  was  within  a few 
minutes'  walk.  John  Barsad,  or  Solomon  Pross,  walked 
at  his  side. 

Mr.  Lorry  had  just  finished  his  dinner,  and  was  sitting 
before  a cheery  little  log  or  two  of  fire — perhaps  looking 
into  their  blaze  for  the  picture  of  that  younger  elderly 
gentleman  from  Tellson's,  who  had  looked  into  the  red 
coals  at  the  Royal  George  at  Dover,  now  a good  many 
years  ago.  He  turned  his  head  as  they  entered,  and 
showed  the  surprise  with  which  he  saw  a stranger. 

‘"Miss  Pross's  brother,  sir,"  said  Sydney.  “ Mr. 
Barsad." 

“ Barsad  ? " repeated  the  old  gentleman,  “ Barsad  ? 
I have  an  association  with  the  name — and  with  the 
face.” 

“I  told  you  you  had  a remarkable  face,  Mr.  Barsad," 
observed  Carton,  coolly.  “ Pray  sit  down." 

As  he  took  a chair  himself  he  supplied  the  link  that 
Mr.  Lorry  wanted,  by  saying  to  him  with  a frown, 
“ Witness  at»  that  trial."  Mr.  Lorry  immediately  re- 
membered, and  regarded  his  new  visitor  with  an  undis- 
guised look  of  abhorrence. 

“ Mr.  Barsad  has  been  recognised  by  Miss  Pross  as  the 
affectionate  brother  you  have  heard  of,"  said  Sydney, 
“ and  has  acknowledged  the  relationship.  I pass  to 
worse  news.  Darnay  has  been  arrested  again." 

Struck  with  consternation,  the  old  gentleman  ex- 
claimed, “ What  do  you  tell  me!  I left  him  safe  and  free 
within  these  two  hours,  and  am  about  to  return  to  him  ! * 

“ Arrested  for  all  that.  When  was  it  done,  Mr.  Bar- 
sad?" 

“ Just  now,  if  at  all.” 

“Mr.  Barsad  is  the  best  authority  possible,  sir,"  said 
Sydney,  “and  I. have  it  from  Mr.  Barsad/s  communica* 
tion  to  a friend  and  brother  Sheep  over  a bottle  of  wine. 


264 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


that  the  arrest  has  taken  place.  He  left  the  messengers 
at  the  gate,  and  saw  them  admitted  by  the  porter.  There 
is  no  earthly  doubt  that  he  is  retaken.” 

Mr.  Lorry’s  business  eye  read  in  the  speaker’s  face 
that  it  was  loss  of  time  to  dwell  upon  the  point.  Can- 
fused,  but  sensible  that  something  might  depend  on  his 
presence  of  mind,  he  commanded  himself,  and  was 
silently  attentive. 

“Now,  I trust,”  said  Sydney  to  him,  “that  the  name 
and  influence  of  Doctor  Manette  may  stand  him  in  as 
good  stead  to-morrow — you  said  he  would  be  before  the 
Tribunal  again  to-morrow.  Mr.  Barsad  ? — ” 

“ Yes  ; I believe  so.” 

“ — In  as  good  stead  to-morrow  as  to-day.  But  it  irnay 
not  be  so.  I own  to  you,  I am  shaken,  Mr.  Lorry,  by 
Doctor  Manette ’s  not  having  had  the  power  to  prevent 
this  arrest.” 

“ He  may  not  have  known  of  it  beforehand,”  said  Mr. 
Lorry. 

“ But  that  very  circumstance  would  be  alarming,  when 
we  remember  how  identified  he  is  with  his  son-in-law.  ” 

“That’s  true,”  Mr.  Lorry  acknowledged,  with  his 
troubled  hand  at  his  chin,  and  his  troubled  eyes  on  Car- 
ton. 

“In  short,”  said  Sydney,  “this  is  a desperate  time, 
when  desperate  games  are  played  for  desperate  stakes. 
Let  the  Doctor  play  the  winning  game  ; I will  play  the 
losing  one.  No  man’s  life  here  is  worth  purchase.  Any 
one  carried  home  by  the  people  to-day,  may  be  con- 
demned to-morrow.  Now,  the  stake  I have  resolved  to 
play  for,  in  case  of  the  worst,  is  a friend  in  the  Concier- 
gerie.  And  the  friend  I purpose  to  myself  to  win,  is 
Mr.  Barsad.” 

“You  need  have  good  cards,  sir,”  said  the  spy. 

“ I’ll  run  them  over.  I’ll  see  what  I held.— Mr.  Lorry, 
you  know  what  a brute  I am ; I wish  you’d  give  me  a 
little  brandy.” 

It  was  put  before  him,  and  he  drank  off  a glassful — 
drank  off  another  glassful — pushed  the  bottle  thought- 
fully away. 

“ Mr.  Barsad,”  he  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
really  was  looking  over  a hand  at  cards  : “ Sheep  of  the 
prisons,  emissary  of  Republican  Committees,  now  turn- 
key, now  prisoner,  always  spy  and  secret  informer,  so 
much  the  more  valuable  here  for  being  English  that  an 
Englishman  is  less  open  to  suspicion  of  subornation  in 
Hiose  characters  than  a Frenchman,  represents  himself 
£o  his  employers  under  a false  name.  That’s  a very 
good  card.  Mr.  Barsad,  now  in  the  employ  of  the  re- 
publican French  government,  was  formerly  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  aristocratic  English  government,  the  enemy 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


265 


of  France  and  freedom.  That's  an  excellent  card.  In- 
ference clear  as  day  in  this  region  of  suspicion,  that  Mr. 
Barsad,  still  in  the  pay  of  the  aristocratic  English  gov- 
ernment, is  the  spy  of  Pitt,  the  treacherous  foe  of  the 
Republic  crouching  in  its  bosom,  the  English  traitor  and 
agen  of  HI  mischief  so  much  spoken  of  and  so  difficult 
to  find.  That/s  a card  not  to  be  beaten.  Have  you  fol 
lowed  my  hand,  Mr.  Barsad  ? ” 

“Hot  t"  understand  your  play,”  returned  the  spy, 
somewhat  uneasily. 

“ I play  my  A.  e,  Denunciation  of  Mr.  Barsad  to  the 
nearest  Section  Committee.  Look  over  your  hand,  Mr. 
Barsad,  and  see  what  you  have.  Don't  hurry.” 

He  drew  the  bottle  near,  poured  out  another  glassful 
- brandy,  and  drank  it  off.  He  saw  that  the  spy  was 
fearful  of  his  drinking  himself  into  a fit  state  for  the 
immediate  denunciation  of  him.  Seeing  it,  he  poured 
out  and  drank  another  glassful. 

44  Look  over  your  hand  carefully,  Mr.  Barsad.  Take 
time.  ” 

It  was  a poorer  hand  than  he  suspected.  Mr.  Barsad 
saw  losing  cards  in  it  that  Sydney  Carton  knew  nothing 
of.  Thrown  * ut  of  his  honourable  employment  in  Eng- 
land, hrough  too  much  unsuccessful  hard  swearing  there 
—no  b cause  he  was  not  wanted  there  ; our  English 
reasons  for  vaunting  our  superiority  to  secrecy  and  spies 
ar  of  very  m dern  date — he  knew  that  he  had  crossed 
the  Channel,  and  accepted  service  in  France  : hrst,  as  a 
tempter  and  an  eavesdropper  among  his  own  countrymen 
there  : gradually,  as  a tempter  and  an  ea  vesdropper  among 
the  natives.  He  knew  that  under  the  overthrown  gov- 
ernment he  had  been  a spy  upon  Saint  Antoine  and  Da 
farge's  wine-shop ; had  received  from  the  watchful 
police  such  heads  of  information  concerning  Doctor 
Manette's  imprisonment,  release,  and  history,  as  should 
serve  him  for  an  introduction  to  familiar  conversation 
with  the  D farges  ; and  tried  them  on  Madame  Defarge, 
and  had  broken  down  with  them  signally.  He  always 
remembered  with  fear  and  trembling,  that  that  terrible 
woman  had  knitted  when  he  talked  with  her,  and  had 
looked  omm  usly  at  him  as  her  fingers  moved.  He  had 
since  seen  her,  in  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine,  over  and 
over  again  pr  duce  li  .r  knitted  registers,  and  denounce 
people  whose  li  ves  the  guili  tine  then  surely  swallowed 
up.  He  knew,  as  every  one  employed  as  he  was,  did, 
that  he  was  never  safe  ; that  flight  was  impossible ; that 
he  was  tied  fast  under  the  shadow  of  the  axe  ; and  that 
in  spite  of  his  utmost  tergiversation  and  treachery  in 
furtherance  of  the  reigning  terror,  a word  might  bring 
it  down  upon  him.  Once  denounced,  and  on  such  grave 
grounds  as  had  just  now  been  suggested  to  his  mind,  he 
~L  VOL.  11 


266 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


foresaw  that  the  dreadful  woman  of  whose  unrelenting 
character  he  had  seen  many  proofs,  would  produce 
against  him  that  fatal  register,  and  would  quash  his  last 
chance  of  life.  Besides  that  all  secret  men  are  men  soon 
terrified,  here  were  surely  cards  enough  of  one  black 
suit,  to  justify  the  holder  in  growing  rather  livid  as  he 
turned  them  over. 

“ You  scarcely  seem  to  like  your  hand,”  said  Sydney, 
with  the  greatest  composure.  “ Do  you  play'?” 

“ I think,  sir,”  said  the  spy,  in  the  meanest  manner, 
as  he  turned  to  Mr.  Lorry,  “ I may  appeal  to  a gentleman 
of  your  years  and  benevolence,  to  put  it  to  this  other 
gentleman,  so  much  your  junior,  whether  he  can  under 
any  circumstances  reconcile  it  to  his  station  to  play  that 
Ace  of  which  he  has  spoken.  I admit  that  I.  am  a spy, 
and  that  it  is  considered  a discreditable  station — though  it 
mvist  be  filled  by  somebody  ; but  this  gentleman  is  no  spy, 
and  why  should  he  so  demean  himself  as  to  make  himself 
one  ? ” 

“ I play  my  Ace,  Mr.  Barsad,”  said  Carton,  taking  the 
answer  on  himself,  and  looking  at  his  watch,  “ without 
any  scruple,  in  a very  few  minutes.” 

“ I should  have  hoped,  gentlemen  both/'  said  the  spy, 
always  striving  to  hook  Mr.  Lorry  into  the  discussion, 
“ that  your  respect  for  my  sister — ” 

“ I could  not  better  testify  my  respect  for  your  sister 
than  by  finally  relieving  her  of  her  brother,”  said  Sydney 
Carton. 

“ You  think  not,  sir  ?” 

“ I have  thoroughly  made  up  my  mind  about  it.” 

The  smooth  manner  of  the  spy,  curiously  in  dissonance 
with  his  ostentatiously  rough  dress,  and  probably  with 
his  usual  demeanour,  received  such  a check  from  the  in- 
scrutability of  Carton, — who  was  a mystery  to  wiser  and 
honester  men  than  he — that  it  faltered  here  and  failed 
him.  While  he  was  at  a loss,  Carton  said,  resuming 
his  former  air  of  contemplating  cards  : 

“ And  indeed,  now  I think  ag*ain,  I have  a strong  im- 
pression that  I have  another  good  card  here,  not  yet 
enumerated.  That  friend  and  fellow-Sheep,  who  spoke 
of  himself  as  pasturing  in  the  country  prisons  ; who  was 
he?” 

“French.  You  don’t  know  him,”  said  the  spy, 
quickly. 

“French,  eh?”  repeated  Carton,  musing,  and  not  ap- 
pearing to  notice  him  at  all,  though  he  echoed  his  word. 

“ We#l  ; he  may  be.” 

“Is,  I assure  you,”  said  the  spy  ; “though  it’s  not 
important.  ” 

“ Though  it’s  not  important,”  repeated  Carton,  in 
the  same  mechanical  way — “ though  it’s  not  important 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CiTJES. 


267 


— No,  it’s  net  important.  No.  Yet  I know  the  face.” 

“I  think  not.  I am  sure  not.  It  can't  be,”  said  the 
spy. 

“ It — can’t — be,”  muttered  Sydney  Carton,  retrospec- 
tively, and  filling  his  glass  (which  fortunately  was  a. 
small  one)  again.  “ Can’t — be.  Spoke  good  Frencho 
Yet  like  a foreigner,  I thought?” 

“Provincial,”  said  the  spy. 

“ No.  Foreign  ! ” cried  Carton,  striking  his  open 
hand  on  the  table  as  a light  broke  clearly  on  his  mind. 
“ Cly ! Disguised,  but  the  same  man.  We  had  that 
man  before  us  at  the  Old  Bailey.” 

“ Now,  there  you  are  hasty,  sir,”  said  Barsad,  wi'th  & 
smile  that  gave  his  aquiline  nose  an  extra  inclination  to  one 
side  ; “ there  you  really  give  me  an  advantage  over  you. 
Cly  (who  I will  unreservedly  admit,  at  this  distance  of 
time,  was  a partner  of  mine)  has  been  dead  several  years. 
I attended  him  in  his  last  illness.  He  was  buried  in 
London,  at  the  church  of  Saint  Pancras-in-tlie-Fields, 
His  unpopularity  with  the  blackguard  multitude  at  the 
moment,  prevented  my  following  his  remains,  but  I 
helped  to  lay  him  in  his  coffin.” 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  became  aware,  from  where  he  sat,  of 
a most  remarkable  goblin  shadow  on  the  wall.  Tracing 
it  to  its  source,  he  discovered  it  to  be  caused  by  s 
sudden  extraordinary  rising  and  stiffening  of  all  the  riser* 
and  stiff  hair  on  Mr.  Cruncher’s  head. 

“Let  us  be  reasonable,”  said  the  spy,  “ and  let  us  be 
fair.  To  show  you  how  mistaken  you  are,  and  what  an 
unfounded  assumption  yoqrs  is,  I will  lay  before  you  a 
certificate  of  Cly's  burial,  which  I happen  to  have  car- 
ried in  my  pocket-book,”  with  a hurried  hand  he  pro- 
duced and  opened  it,  “ ever  since.  There  it  is.  Oh, 
look  at  it,  look  at  it  ! You  may  take  it  in  your  hand  ; 
it's  no  forgery.” 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  perceived  the  reflection  on  the  wall 
to  elongate,  and  Mr  Cruncher  rose  and  stepped  forward. 
His  hair  could  not  Imve  been  more  violently  on  end,  if 
it  had  been  that  moment  dressed  by  the  Cow  with  the 
crumpled  horn  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

Unseen  by  the  spy,  Mr.  Cruncher  stood  at  his  side, 
and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  like  a ghostly 
bailiff. 

“That  there  Roger  Cly,  master,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
with  a taciturn  and  iron-bound  visage.  “ So  you  put  hiias 
in  his  coffin  : ” 

“I  did.” 

“Who  took  him  out  of  it  ? ” 

Barsad  leaned  hack  in  his  chair,  and  stammered, 
“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“I  mean,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  “that  he  warn’t  never 


4 


HERE  MR.  LORRY  BECAME  AWARE  OF  A MOST  REMARKABLE  GOBLIN  SHADOW  ON  THE  WALL. 

—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  268. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


269 


in  it.  No  l Not  lie  I TO  have  my  head  took  off,  if  he 
was  ever  in  it.  ” 

The  spy  looked  round  at  the  two  gentlemen  ; they 
both  looked  in  unspeakable  astonishment  at  Jerry. 

“ I tell  you,”  said  Jerry,  “that  you  buried  paving 
stones  and  earth  in  that  there  coffin.  Don’t  go  and  tell 
me  that  you  buried  Cly.  It  was  a take  in.  Me  and  two 
more  knows  it.” 

“ How  do  you  know  it  ?” 

“What’s  that  to  you?  Ecod  !”  growled  Mr.  Crun- 
cher, “ it’s  you  I have  got  a old  grudge  again,  is  it, 
with  your  shameful  impositions  upon  tradesmen  ! I’d 
catch  hold  of  your  throat  and  choke  you  for  half  a 
guinea.” 

Sydney  Carton,  who,  with  Mr.  Lorry,  had  been  lost 
in  amazement  at  this  turn  of  the  business,  here  re- 
quested Mr.  Cruncher  to  moderate  and  explain  him- 
self. 

“At  another  time,  sir,”  he  returned,  evasively,  “the 
present  time  is  ill-conwenient  for  explainin’.  What  I 
stand  to,  is,  that  he  knows  well  wot  that  there  Cly  was 
never  in  that  there  coffin.  Let  him  say  he  was,  in  so  much 
as  a word  of  one  syllable,  and  I’ll  either  catch  hold  of 
his  throat  and  choke  him  for  half  a guinea  ; ” Mr.  Crun- 
cher dwelt  upon  this  as  quite  a liberal  offer ; “ or  TO  out 
and  announce  him.” 

“Humph  ! I see  one  thing,”  said  Carton.  “I  hold 
another  card,  Mr  Barsad.  Impossible,  here  in  raging 
Paris,  with  Suspicion  filling  the  air,  for  you  to  outlive 
denunciation,  when  you  are  in  communication  with  an- 
other aristocratic  spy  of  the  same  antecedents  as  your< 
self,  who,  moreover,  has  the  mystery  about  him  of 
having  feigned  death  and  come  to  life  again  ! A plot 
in  the  prisons,  of  the  foreigner  against  the  Republic. 
A strong  card — a certain  Guillotine  card  ! Do  you 
play  ?” 

“No!”  returned  the  spy.  “I  throw  up.  I confess 
that  we  were  so  unpopular  with  the  outrageous  mob,  that 
I only  got  away  from  England  at  the  risk  of  being  ducked 
to  death,  and  that  Cly  was  so  ferreted  up  and  down, 
that  he  never  would  have  got  away  at  all  but  for  that 
sham.  Though  how  this  man  knows  it  was  a sham,  is  a 
wonder  of  wonders  to  me.” 

“ Never  you  trouble  your  head  about  this  man,”  re- 
torted the  contentious  Mr.  Cruncher  ; “ you’ll  have  trou- 
ble enough  with  giving  your  attention  to  that  gentleman. 
And  look  here  ! Once  more  ! ” — Mr.  Cruncher  could  not 
be  restrained  from  making  rather  an  ostentatious  parade 
of  his  liberality— “ I’d  catch  hold  of  your  throat  and 
choke  you  for  half  a guinea. 

The  Sheep  of  the  prisons  turned  from  him  to  Sydney 


270  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  BICKENS. 

Carton,  and  said,  with  more  decision,  c‘It  has  come  to  a 
point.  I go  on  duty  soon,  and  can't  overstay  my  time 
You  told  me  you  had  a proposal  ; what  is  it?  Now,  it  is 
of  no  use  asking  too  much  of  me,  Ask  me  to  do  anythin 
in  my  office,  putting  my  head  in  great  extra  danger,  and 
I had  better  trust  my  life  to  the  chances  of  a refusal  than 
the  chances  of  consent.  In  short,  I should  make  that 
choice.  You  talk  of  desperation.  We  are  all  desperate 
heife.  Remember ! I may  denounce  you  if  I think 
proper,  and  I can  swear  my  way  through  stone  walls, 
and  so  can  others.  Now,  what  do  you  want  with 
me?” 

“ Not  very  much.  You  are  a turnkey  at  the  Con- 
ciergerie  ? ” 

“ I tell  you  once  for  all,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an 
escape  possible,”  said  the  Spy,  firmly. 

“ Why  need  you  tell  what  I have  not  asked  ? You  are 
a turnkey  at  the  Conciergerie  ? ” 

“ I am  sometimes.” 

“ You  can  be  when  yon  choose?” 

“ I can  pass  in  and  out  when  I choose.” 

Sydney  Carton  filled  another  glass  with  brandy,  poured 
it  slowly  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  watched  it  as  it 
dropped.  It  being  all  spent,  he  said,  rising  : 

“ So  far,  we  have  spoken  before  these  two,  because 
it  was  as  well  that  the  merits  of  the  cards  should 
not  rest  solely  between  you  and  me.  Come  into  the 
dark  room  here,  and  let  us  have  one  final  word  alone.  ” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Game  Made. 

While  Sydney  Carton  and  the  Sheep  of  the  prisons 
were  in  the  adjoining  dark  room,  speaking  so  low  that 
not  a sound  was  heard,  Mr.  Lorry  looked  at  Jerry  in  con- 
siderable doubt  and  mistrust.  That  honest  tradesman's 
manner  of  receiving  the  look,  did  not  inspire  confidence  ; 
he  changed  the  leg  on  which  he  rested,  as  often  as  if  he 
had  fifty  of  those  limbs,  and  were  trying  them  all  ; he 
examined  his  finger-nails  with  a very  questionable  close- 
ness of  attention  ; and  whenever  Mr.  Lorry’s  eye  caught 
his,  he  was  taken  with  that  peculiar  kind  of  short  cough 
requiring  the  hollow  of  a hand  before  it,  which  is  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  known  to  be  an  infirmity  attendant  on  per- 
fect openness  of  character. 

“ Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Come  here.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  forward  sideways,  with  one  of  his 
shoulders  in  advance  of  him. 

“ What  have  you  been,  besides  a messenger  ? " 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


271 


After  some  cogitation,  accompanied  with  an  intent 
look  at  liis  patron,  Mr.  Cruncher  conceived  the  luminous 
idea  of  replying,  “ Agricultooral  character.  ” 

“My  mind  misgives  me  much,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  an- 
grily shaking  a forefinger  at  him,  “ that  you  have  used 
the  respectable  and  great  house  of  Tellson’s  as  a blind, 
and  that  you  have  had  an  unlawful  occupation  of  an  in- 
famous description.  If  you  have,  don’t  expect  rue  to 
befriend  you  when  you  get  back  to  England.  If  you 
have,  don’t  expect  me  to  keep  your  secret.  Tellson’s 
shall  not  be  imposed  upon.” 

“I  hope,  sir,”  pleaded  the  abashed  Mr.  Cruncher, 
“ that  a gentleman  like  yourself  wrot  I’ve  had  the  honour 
of  odd  jobbing  till  I’m  grey  at  it,  would  think  twice 
about  harming  of  me,  even  if  it  wos  so — I don’t  say  it 
is,  but  even  if  it  wos.  And  which  it  is  to  be  took  into 
account  that  if  it  wos,  it  wouldn’t,  even  then,  he  all  o’ 
one  side.  There’d  be  two  sides  to  it.  There  might  be 
medical  doctors  at  the  present  hour,  a picking  up  their 
guineas  where  a honest  tradesman  don’t  pick  up  his 
fardens — fardens  ! no,  nor  yet  his  half  fardens — half 
fardens  ! no,  nor  yet  his  quarter — a oanking  away  like 
smoke  at  Tellson’s,  and  a cocking  their  medical  eyes  at 
that  tradesman  on  the  sly,  a going  in  and  going  out  to 
their  own  carriages— ah  ! equally  like  smoke,  if  not  more 
so.  Well,  that  ’ud  be  imposing  too,  on  Tellson’s.  For 
you  cannot  sarse  the  goose  and  not  the  gander.  And 
here’s  Mrs.  Cruncher,  or  leastways  wos  in  the  Old  Eng- 
land times,  and  would  be  to-morrow,  if  cause  given,  a 
floppin’  again  the  business  to  that  degree  as  is  ruinating 
—stark  ruinating  ! Whereas  them  medical  doctors’ 
wives  don’t  fi op— catch  ’em  at  it ! Or,  If  they  flop,  their 
Hoppings  goes  in  favour  of  more  patients,  and  how  can  you 
rightly  have  one  without  the  t’other  ? Then,  wot  with 
undertakers,  and  wot  with  parish  clerks,  and  wot  with 
sextons,  and  wot  with  private  watchmen  (all  awaricious 
and  all  in  it),  a man  wouldn’t  get  much  by  it,  even  if  it 
wos  so.  And  wot  little  a man  did  get,  would  never 
prosper  with  him,  Mr.  Lorry.  He’d  never  have  no  good 
of  it  ; he’d  want  ail  along  to  be  out  of  the  line,  if  he 
could  see  his  way  out,  being  once  in — even  if  it  wos  so.” 

“ Ugh  ! ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rather  relenting,  neverthe- 
less. “ I am  shocked  at  the  sight  of  you.” 

“ Now,  what  I would  humbly  offer  to  you,  sir,”  pur- 
sued Mr.  Cruncher,  “even  if  it  wos  so,  which  I don’t 
say  it  is — ” 

“ Don’t  prevaricate,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“No,  I will  not , sir,”  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  as  if 
frothing  were  further  from  his  thoughts  or  practice— 
“ which  I don’t  say  it  is — wot  I would  humbly  offer  to 
you,  sir,  would  be  this.  Upon  that  there  stool,  at  that  there 


272 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Bar,  sets  that  there  boy  of  mine,  brought  up  and  growed 
up  to  be  a man,  wot  will  errand  you,  message  you,  gen- 
eral-light-job you,  till  your  heels  is  where  your  head  is,  if 
such  should  be  your  wishes.  If  it  wos  so,  which  I still 
don’t  say  it  is  (for  I will  not  prewaricate  to  you,  sir),  let 
that  there  boy  keep  his  father’s  place,  and  take  care  of 
his  mother  ; don’t  blow  upon  that  boy’s  father— do  not 
do  it,  sir— and  let  that  father  go  into  the  line  of  the 
reg’lar  diggin’,  and  make  amends  for  what  he  would 
have  un-dug — if  it  wos  so— by  diggin’  of  ’em  in  with  a 
will,  and~with  conwfctions  respectin’  the  futur’  keepifCof 
’em  safe.  That,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  wiping 
his  forehead  with  his  arm,  as  an  announcement  that  he 
had  arrived  at  the  peroration  of  his  discourse,  “ is  wot  I 
would  respectfully  offer  to  you,  sir.  A man  don’t  see 
all  this  here  a goin’  on  dreadful  round  him  in  the  way 
of  Subjects  without  heads,  dear  me,  plentiful  enough 
fur  to  bring  the  price  down  to  porterage  and  hardly  that, 
without  havin’  his  serious  thoughts  of  things.  And 
these  here  would  be  mine,  if  it  wos  so,  entreatin’  of  you 
fur  to  bear  in  mind  that  wot  I said  just  now,  I up  and 
said  in  the  good  cause  when  I might  have  kep’  it  back.” 

“ That  at  least  is  true,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Say  no 
more  now.  It  may  be  that  I shall  yet  stand  your  friend, 
if  you  deserve  it,  and  repent  in  action — not  in  words.  I 
want  no  more  words.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  knuckled  his  forehead,  as  Sydney  Carton 
and  the  spy  returned  from  the  dark  room.  “ Adieu,  Mr. 
Barsad  ! ” said  the  former  ; st  our  arrangement  thus 
made,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.” 

He  sat  down  in  a chair  on  the  hearth,  over  against  Mr. 
Lorry.  When  they  were  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  hinj 
what  he  had  done  ? 

“ Not  much.  If  it  should  go  ill  with  the  prisoner,  ][ , 
have  ensured  access  to  him,  once.” 

Mr.  Lorry’s  countenance  fell. 

“ It  is  all  T could  do,”  said  Carton,  “ To  propose  top 
much,  would  be  to  put  this  man’s  head  under  the  axe, 
and,  as  he  himself  said,  nothing  worse  could  happen  to 
him  if  he  were  denounced.  It  was  obviously,  the  weak- 
ness of  the  position.  There  is  no  help  for  it.” 

“ But  access  to  him,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ if  it  should  go 
ill  before  the  tribunal,  will  not  save  him.” 

“ I never  said  it  would.” 

Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  gradually  sought  the  fire  ; his  sym- 
pathy with  his  darling,  and  the  heavy  disappointment  of 
this  second  arrest,  gradually  weakened  them  ; he  was  an 
old  man  now,  overborne  with  anxiety  of  late,  and  his 
tears  fell. 

" You  are  a good  man  and  a true  friend,”  said  Carton, 
in  an  altered  voice.  “ Forgive  me  if  I notice  that  you 


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273 


are  affected.  I could  not  see  my  fatlier  weep,  and  sit  by, 
careless.  And  I could  not  respect  your  sorrow  more,  if 
you  were  my  father.  You  are  free  from  that  misfortune, 
however.  ” 

Though  he  said  the  last  words,  with  a slip  into  his 
usual  manner,  there  was  a true  feeling  and  respect  both 
in  his  tone  and  in  his  touch,  that  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had 
never  seen  the  better  side  of  him,  was  wholly  unpre- 
pared for.  He  gave  him  his  hand,  and  Carton  gently 
pressed  it. 

“ To  return  to  poor  Darnay,”  said  Carton.  “ Don’t  tell 
Her  of  this  interview,  or  this  arrangement.  It  would 
not  enable  Her  to  go  to  see  him.  She  might  think  it  was 
contrived,  in  case  of  the  worst,  to  convey  to  him  the 
means  of  anticipating  the  sentence.” 

Mr.  Lorry  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  he  looked 
quickly  at  Carton  to  see  if  it  were  in  his  mind.  It 
seemed  to  be  ; he  returned  the  look,  and  evidently  under- 
stood It. 

“She  might  think  a thousand  things,”  Carton  said, 
“ and  any  of  them  would  only  add  to  her  trouble.  Don’t 
speak  of  me  to  her.  As  I said  to  you  when  I first  came, 
I had  better  not  see  her.  I can  put  my  hand  out,  to  do 
any  little  helpful  work  for  her  that  my  hand  can  find  to 
do,  without  that.  You  are  going  to  her,  I hope  ? She 
must  be  very  desolate  to-night.” 

“ I am  going  now,  directly.” 

“ I am  glad  of  that.  She  has  such  a strong  attach- 
ment to  you  and  reliance  on  you.  How  does  she  look  ?” 

“ Anxious  and  unhappy,  but  very  beautiful.” 

" Ah  ! ” 

It  was  a long,  grieving  sound,  like  a sigh — almost  like 
a sob.  It  attracted  Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  to  Carton’s  face, 
which  was  turned  to  the  fire.  A light,  or  a shade  (the 
old  gentleman  could  not  have  said  which),  passed  from 
it  as  swiftly  as  a change  will  sweep  over  a hill -side  on  a 
wild  bright  day,  and  he  lifted  his  foot  to  put  back  one 
of  the  little  flaming  logs,  which  was  tumbling  forward. 
He  wore  the  white  riding-coat  and  top-boots,  then  in 
vogue,  and  the  light  of  the  fire  touching  their  light  sur- 
faces made  him  look  very  pale,  with  his  long  brown  hair, 
all  untrimmed,  hanging  loose  about  him.  His  indiffer. 
fence  to  fire  was  sufficiently  remarkable  to  elicit  a word  of 
remonstrance  from  Mr.  Lorry  ; his  hoot  was  still  upon 
the  hot  embers  of  the  flaming  log,  when  it  had  broken 
under  the  weight  of  his  foot. 

“ I forgot  it,”  lie  said. 

Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  were  again  attracted  to  his  face. 
Taking  note  of  the  wasted  air  which  clouded  the  natur- 
ally handsome  features,  and  having  the  expression  of 


274 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


prisoners’  faces  fresh  in  his  mind,  he  was  strongly  re« 
minded  of  that  expression. 

“ And  your  duties  here  have  drawn  to  an  end,  sir?  99 
said  Carton,  turning  to  him. 

“Yes.  As  I was  telling  you  last  night  when  Lucie 
came  in  so  unexpectedly,  I have  at  length  done  all  that 
I can  do  here.  I hoped-  to  have  left  them  in  perfect 
safety,  and  then  to  have  quitted  Paris.  I have  my  Leave 
to  Pass,  I was  ready  to  go.” 

They  were  both  silent. 

“ Yours  is  a long  life  to  look  back  upon,  sir?”  said 
Carton,  wistfully. 

“ I am  in  my  seventy-eighth  year.” 

<f  You  have  been  useful  all  your  life  ; steadily  and 
constantly  occupied  ; trusted,  respected,  and  looked  up 
to?” 

“ I have  been  a man  of  business,  ever  since  I have 
been  a man.  Indeed,  I may  say  that  I was  a man  of 
business  when  a boy.” 

“ See  what  a place  you  fill  at  seventy -eight.  How 

many  people  will  miss  you  when  3'ou  leave  it  empty  ! ” 

“ A solitary  old  bachelor,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  shak- 
ing his  head.  “ There  is  nobody  to  weep  for  me.” 

“How  can  you  say  that?  Wouldn't  she  weep  for 
you  ? Wouldn’t  her  child  ? ” 

“Yes,  yes,  thank  God.  I didn’t  quite  mean  what  I 
said.” 

4 f It  is  a thing  to  thank  God  for  ; is  it  not  ? ” 

“ Surely,  surely.” 

‘ ' If  you  could  say,  with  truth,  to  your  own  solitary 
heart,  to-night,  f I have  secured  to  myself  the  love  and 
attachment,  the  gratitude  or  respect,  of*  no  human 
creature  ; I have  won  myself  a tender  place  in  no  re^ 
gard  ; I have  done  nothing  good  or  serviceable  to  be 
remembered  by  ! ’ your  seventy-eight  years  would  be 
seventy-eight  heavy  curses  ; would  they  not?” 

“You  say  truly,  Mr.  Carton  ; I think  they  would  be.” 

Sydney  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  fire,  and,  after 
a silence  of  a few  moments,  said  : 

“I  should  like  to  ask  you  :• — Does  your  childhood  seem 
far  off  ? Do  the  days  when  you  sat  at  your  mother’s 
knee,  seeih  days  of  very  long  ago  ? ” 

Responding  to  his  softened  manner,  Mr.  Lorry  an- 
swered : 

“ Twenty  years  back,  yes  ; at  this  time  of  my  life,  no. 
Por,  as  I draw  closer  and  closer  to  the  end,  I travel  in 
the  circle,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beginning.  It  seems 
to  be  one  of  the  kind  smoothings  and  preparings  of  the 
way.  My  heart  is  touched  now,  by  many  remembrances 
that  had  long  fallen  asleep,  of  my  pretty  young  mother 
(and  I so  old  !),  and  by  many  associations  of  the  days 


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&75 


when  what  we  call  the  World  was  not  so  real  with  me, 
and  my  fa  alts  were  not  confirmed  in  me.” 

“I  understand  the  feeling  ! ” exclaimed  Carton,  with 
a bright  flush.  “ And  you  are  the  better  for  it?” 

“ I hope  so.” 

Carton  terminated  the  conversation  here,  by  rising  to 
help  him  on  with  his  outer  coat  ; “ but  you,”  said  Mrc 
Lorry,  reverting  to  the  theme,  “you  are  young.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Carton.  “ I am  not  old,  but  my  young 
way  was  never  the  way  to  age.  Enough  of  me.” 

“And  of  me,  I am  sure,”  said  Mr  Lorry.  “Are  you 
going  out  ? ” 

“I'll  walk  wi£h  you  to  her  gate.  You  know  my  vag- 
abond and  restless  habits.  If  I should  prowl  about  the 
streets  a long  time,  don’t  be  uneasy  ; I shall  reappear  in 
the  morning.  You  go  to  the  Court  to-morrow?” 

“Yes,  unhappily.” 

“ I shall  be  there,  but  only  as  one  of  the  crowd.  My 
Spy  will  find  a place  for  me.  Take  my  arm,  sir.” 

Mr.  Lorry  did  so,  and  they  went  down-stairs  and  out 
in  the  streets.  A few  minutes  brought  them  to  Mr. 
Lorry’s  destination.  Carton  left  him  there  ; but  lingered 
at  a little  distance,  and  turned  back  to  the  gate  again 
When  it  was  shut,  and  touched  it.  He  had  heard  of  her 
going  to  the  jurison  every  day.  “ She  came  out  here,” 
he  said,  looking  about  him,  “ turned  this  way,  must  have 
trod  on  these  stones  often.  Let  me  follow  in  her 
steps.” 

It  was  ten  o’clock  at  night  when  he  stood  before  the 
prison  of  La  Force,  where  she  had  stood  hundreds  of 
times.  A little  wood-sawyer,  having  closed  his  shop, 
was  smoking  his  pipe  at  his  shop-door. 

“ Good  night,  citizen,”  said  Sydney  Carton,  pausing  in 
going  by  ; for,  the  man  eyed  him  inquisitively. 

‘ ‘ Good  night,  citizen.  ” 

“ How  goes  the  Republic  ? ” 

“You  mean  the  Guillotine.  Not  ill.  Sixty-three  to- 
day. We  shall  mount  to  a hundred  soon.  Sanson  and 
his  men  complain  sometimes,  of  being  exhausted.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! He  is  so  droll,  that  Sanson.  Such  a Barber  ! ” 

“ Do  you  often  go  to  see  him — ” 

“Shave?  Always.  Every  day.  What  a Barber! 
You  have  seen  him  at  work  ? ” 

“Never.” 

“ Go  and  see  him  when  he  has  a good  hatch.  Figure 
this  to  yourself,  citizen  ; he  shaved  the  sixty-three  to- 
day, in  less  than  two  pipes  ! Less  than  two  pipes  ! 
Word  of  honour  ! ” 

As  the  grinning  little  man  held  out  the  pipe  he  was 
smoking,  to  explain  how  he  timed  the  executioner.  Car- 


276 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ton  was  so  sensible  of  a rising  desire  to  strike  the  life  out 
of  him,  that  he  turned  away. 

“But  you  are  not  English,”  said  the  wood-sawyer, 
“ though  you  wear  English  dress  ?” 

“ Yes,”  said  Carton,  pausing  again,  and  answering 
over  his  shoulder. 

“ You  speak  like  a Frenchman.” 

“ I am  an  old  student  here.” 

“ Aha,  a perfect  Frenchman  ! Good  night,  English- 
man.” 

“ Good  night,  citizen.” 

“ But  go  and  see  that  droll  dog,”  the  little  man  per- 
sisted, calling  after  him.  “ And  take  a pipe  with  you  ! ” 

Sydney  had  not  gone  far  out  of  sight,  when  he  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  under  a glimmering  lamp, 
and  wrote  with  his  pencil  on  a scrap  of  paper.  Then, 
traversing  with  the  decided  step-of  one  who  remembered 
the  way  well,  several  dark  and  dirty  streets — much  dir- 
tier .than  usual,  for  the  best  public  thoroughfares  re- 
mained uncleansed  in  those  times  of  terror — he  stopped 
at  a chemist’s  shop,  which  the  owner  was  closing  with 
his  own  hands.  \ small,  dim,  crooked  shop,  kept  \n  a 
tortuous,  up-hill  thoroughfare,  by  a small,  dim,  crooked 
man. 

Giving  this  citizen,  too,  good-night,  as  he  confronted 
him  at  his  counter,  he  laid  the  scrap  of  paper  before 
him.  “ Whew  ! ” the  chemist  whistled  softly,  as  he  read 
it.  “ Hi  ! hi  ! hi  ! ” 

Sydney  Carton  took  no  heed,  and  the  chemist  said  : 

“ For  you,  citizen  ? ” 

“ For  me.” 

“ You  will  be  careful  to  keep  them  separate,  citizen  ? 
You  know  the  consequences  of  mixing  them  ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

Certain  small  packets  were  made  and  given  to  him. 
He  put  them,  one  by  one,  in  the  breast  of  his  inner  coat, 
counted  out  the  money  for  them,  and  deliberately  left 
the  shop.  “ There  is  nothing  more  to  do,”  said  he, 
glancing  upward  at  the  moon,  “ until  to-morrow.  I can’t 
sleep.” 

It  was  not  a reckless  manner,  the  manner  in  which  he 
said  these  words  aloud  under  the  fast-sailing  clouds, 
nor  was  it  more  expressive  of  negligence  than  defiance. 
It  was  the  settled  manner  of  a tired  man,  who  had  wan- 
dered and  struggled  and  got  lost,  but  who  at  length 
struck  into  his  road  and  saw  its  end. 

Long  ago,  when  he  had  been  famous  among  his  ear- 
liest competitors  as  a youth  of  great  promise,  he  had 
followed  his  father  to  the  grave.  His  mother  had  died 
years  before.  These  solemn  words,  which  had  been  read 
at  his  father’s  grave,  arose  in  his  mind  as  he  went  down 


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277 


the  dark  streets,  among  the  heavy  shadows,  with  the 
moon  and  the  clouds  sailing  on  high  above  him.  “ I am 
the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  : he  that 
believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live . 
and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  neve? 
die.” 

In  a city  dominated  by  the  axe,  alone  at  night,  with 
natural  sorrow  rising  in  him  for  the  sixty-three  who  had 
been  that  day  put  to  death,  and  for  to-morrow's  victims 
then  awaiting  their  doom  in  the  prisons,  and  still  of  to- 
morrow’s, and  to-morrow’s,  the  chain  of  association  that 
brought  the  words  home,  like  a rusty  old  ship’s  anchor 
from  the  deep,  might  have  been  easily  found.  He  did 
not  seek  it,  but  repeated  them  and  went  on. 

With  a solemn  interest  in  the  lighted  windows  where 
the  people  were  going  to  rest,  forgetful  through  a few 
calm  hours  of  the  horrors  surrounding  them  ; in  the 
towers  of  the  churches,  where  no  prayers  were  said,  for 
the  popular  revulsion  had  even  travelled  that  length  of 
self-destruction  from  years  of  priestly  impostors,  plun- 
derers, and  profligates  ; in  the  distant  burial-places,  re- 
served, as  they' wrote  upon  the  gates,  for  Eternal  Sleep  ; 
it  the  abounding  gaols  ; and  in  the  streets  along  which 
the  sixties  rolled  to  a death  which  had  become  so  com- 
mon and  material,  that  no  sorrowful  story  of  a haunting 
Spirit  ever  arose  among  the  people  out  of  all  the  work- 
ing of  the  Guillotine  ; with  a solemn  interest  in  the 
whole  life  and  death  of  the  city  settling  down  to  its 
short  nightly  pause  in  fury  ; Sydney  Carton  crossed  the 
Seine  again  for  the  lighter  streets. 

Few  coaches  were  abroad,  for  riders  in  coaches  wrere 
liable  to  be  suspected,  and  gentility  hid  its  head  in  red 
nightcaps,  and  put  on  heavy  shoes,  and  trudged.  But, 
the  theatres  were  all  well  filled,  and  the  people  poured 
cheerfully  out  as  he  passed,  and  went  chattering  home. 
At  one  of  the  theatre  doors,  there  was  a little  girl  with 
a mother,  looking  for  a way  across  the  street  through 
the  mud^  He  carried  the  child  over,  and  before  the 
timid  arm  was  loosened  from  his  neck  asked  her  for  a 
kiss. 

“ I am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  s 
he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall 
he  live  : and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me, 
shall  never  die.” 

Now,  that  the  streets  were  quiet,  and  the  night  wore 
on,  the  words  were  in  the  echoes  of  his  feet,  and  were 
in  the  air.  Perfectly  calm  and  steady,  he  sometimes 
repeated  them  to  himself  as  he  walked  ; but,  he  heard 
them  always. 

The  night  wore  out,  and,  as  he  stood  upon  the  bridge 
listening  to  the  water  as  it  splashed  the  river-  walls  o* 


278 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  Island  of  Paris,  where  the  picturesque  confusion  of 
houses  and  cathedral  shone  bright  in  the  light  of  the 
moonpthe  day  came  coldly,  loooking  like  a dead  face 
out  of  the  sky.  Then,  the  night,  with  the  moon  and 
the  stars,  turned  pale  and  died,  and  for  a little  while  it 
seemed  as  if  Creation  were  delivered  over  to  Death’s  do« 
minion. 

But,  the  glorious  sun,  rising,  seemed  to  strike  those 
words,  that  burden  of  of  the  night,  straight  and  warm 
to  his  heart  in  its  long  bright  rays.  And  looking  along 
them,  with  reverently  shaded  eyes,  a bridge  of  light  ap- 
peared to  span  the  air  between  him  and  the  sun,  while 
the  river  sparkled  under  it. 

The  strong  tide,  so  swift,  so  deep,  and  certain,  was 
like  a congenial  friend,  in  the  morning  stillness.  He 
walked  by  the  stream,  far  from  the  houses,  and  in  the 
light  and  warmth  of  the  sun  fell  asleep  on  the  bank. 
When  he  awoke  and  was  afoot  again,  he  lingered  there 
yet  a little  longer,  watching  an  eddy  that  turned  and 
turned  purposeless,  until  the  stream  absorbed  it,  and 
carried  it  on  to  the  sea. — if  Like  me  ! ” 

A trading-boat,  with  a sail  of  the  softened  colour  of  a- 
dead  leaf,  then  glided  into  his  view,  floated  by  him,  and 
died  away.  As  its  silent  track  in  the  water  disappeared, 
the  prayer  that  had  broken  up  out  of  his  heart  for  s, 
merciful  consideration  of  all  his  poor  blindnesses  and 
errors,  ended  in  the  words,  “ I am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life.” 

Mr.  Lorry  was  already  out  when  he  got  oack,  and  it 
was  easy  to  surmise  where  the  good  old  man  was  gone. 
Sydney  Carton  drank  nothing  but  a little  coffee,  ate 
some  bread,  and,  having  washed  and  changed  to  refresh 
himself,  went  out  to  the  place  of  trial. 

The  court  was  all  astir  and  a-buzz,  when  the  black 
sheep — whom  many  fell  away  from  in  dread — pressed 
him  into  an  obscure  corner  among  the  crowd.  Mr.  Lorry 
was  there,  and  Doctor  Manette  w^as  there.  She  was 
there,  sitting  beside  her  father. 

When  her  husband  was  brought  in,  she  turned  a look 
upon  him,  so  sustaining,  so  encouraging,  so  full  of  ad- 
miring love  and  pitying  tenderness,  yet  so  courageous 
for  his  sake,  that  it  called  the  healthy  blood  into  his 
face,  brightened  his  glance,  and  animated  his  heart.  If 
there  had  been  any  eyes  to  notice  the  influence  of  her 
look,  on  Sydney  Carton,  it  would  have  been  seen  to  be 
the  same  influence  exactly. 

Before  that  unjust  Tribunal,  there  was  little  or  no 
order  of  procedure,  ensuring  to  any  accused  person  any 
reasonable  hearing.  There  could  have  been  no  such 
Revolution,  if  all  laws  and  forms*  and  ceremonies,  had 
not  first  been  so  monstrously  abused,  that  the  suicidal 


THE  TRIAL  OF  EVREMONDE 


280 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


vengeance  of  the  Revolution  was  to  scatter  tliem  all  to 
the  winds. 

Every  eye  was  turned  to  the  jury.  The  same  deter- 
mined patriots  and  good  republicans  as  yesterday  and 
the  day  before,  and  to-morrow  and  the  day  after.  Eager 
and  prominent  among  them,  one  man  with  a craving 
face,  and  his  fingers  perpetually  hovering  about  his  lips, 
whose  appearance  gave  great  satisfaction  to  the  specta- 
tors. A life-thirsting,  cannibal -looking,  bloody-minded 
juryman,  the  Jacques  Three  of  Saint  Antoine.  The 
whole  jury,  as  a jury  of  dogs  empannelled  to  try  the 
deer. 

Every  eye  then  turned  to  the  five  judges  and  the  pub- 
lic prosecutor.  No  favourable  leaning  in  that  quarter 
to-day.  A fell,  uncompromising,  murderous  business- 
meaning there.  Every  eye  then  sought  some  other  eye 
in  the  crowd,  and  gleamed  at  it  approvingly  ; and  heads 
nodded  at  one  another,  before  bending  forward  with  a 
strained  attention. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay.  Released  yester- 
day. Re-accused  and  re-taken  yesterday.  Indictment 
delivered  to  him  last  night.  Suspected  and  Denounced 
enemy  of  the  Republic,  Aristocrat,  one  of  a family  of 
tyrants,  one  of  a race  proscribed,  for  that  they  had  used 
their  abolished  privileges  to  the  infamous  oppression  of 
the  people.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  in  right 
of  such  proscription,  absolutely  Dead  in  Law. 

To  this  effect,  in  as  few  or  fewer  words,  the  Public 
Prosecutor. 

The  President  asked,  was  the  Accused  openly  de- 
nounced or  secretly  ? 

“Openly,  President.” 

“ By  whom  ? ” 

“ Three  voices.  Ernest  Defarge,  wine- vender  of 
Saint  Antoine.” 

“Good.” 

“ Therese  Defarge,  his  wife.” 

“ Good.” 

“ Alexandre  Manette,  physician.” 

A great  uproar  took  place  in  the  court,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it,  Doctor  Manette  was  seen,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, standing  where  he  had  been  seated. 

“ President,  I indignantly  protest  to  you  that  this  is  a 
forgery  and  a fraud.  You  know  the  accused  to  be  the 
husband  of  my  daughter.  My  daughter,  and  those  dear 
to  her,  are  far  dearer  to  me  than  my  life.  Who  and 
where  is  the  false  conspirator  who  says  that  I denounce 
the  husband  of  my  child  ? ” 

“Citizen  Manette,  be  tranquil.  To  fail  in  submission 
to  the  authority  of  the  Tribunal  would  be  to  put  your- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


281 


self  out  of  Law.  As  to  what  is  dearer  to  you  than  life, 
nothing  can  be  so  dear  to  a good  citizen  as  the  Repub- 
lic.” 

Loud  acclamations  hailed  this  rebuke.  The  President 
rang  his  bell,  and  with  warmth  resumed. 

" If  the  Republic  should  demand  of  you  the  sacrifice 
of  your  child  herself,  you  would  have  no  duty  but  to 
sacrifice  her.  Listen  to  what  is  to  follow.  In  the  mean- 
while, be  silent  ! ” 

Frantic  acclamations  were  again  raised.  Doctor 
Manette  sat  down,  with  his  eyes  looking  around,  and  his 
lips  trembling  ; his  daughter  drew  closer  to  him.  The 
craving  man  on  the  jury  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and 
restored  the  usual  hand  to  his  mouth. 

Defarge  was  produced,  when  the  court  was  quiet 
Enough  to  admit  of  his  being  heard,  and  rapidly  expound 
ed  the  story  of  the  imprisonment,  and  of  his  having 
been  a mere  boy  in  the  doctor’s  service,  and  of  the  release, 
and  of  the  state  of  the  prisoner  when  released  and  de- 
livered to  him.  This  short  examination  followed,  for 
the  court  was  quick  with  its  work. 

“ You  did  good  service  at  the  taking  of  the  Bastille, 
citizen?  ” 

“ I believe  so.” 

Here,  an  excited  woman  screeched  from  the  crowd  : 
te  You  were  one  of  the  best  patriots  there.  Why  not  say 
so?  You  were  a cannonier  that  day  there,  and  you  were 
among  the  first  to  enter  the  accursed  fortress  when  it  fell. 
Patriots,  I speak  the  truth  ! ” 

It  was  The  Vengeance  who,  amidst  the  warm  com- 
mendations of  the  audience,  thus  assisted  the  proceedings. 
The  President  rang  his  bell  ; but,  The  Vengeance,  warm- 
ing  with  encouragement,  shrieked,  “ I defy  that  bell  \ " 
wherein  she  was  likewise  much  commended. 

“ Inform  the  Tribunal  of  what  you  did  that  day  within 
the  Bastille,  citizen.” 

“ I knew,”  said  Defarge,  looking  down  at  his  wife, who 
stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  on  which  he  was  raised, 
looking  steadily  up  at  him  ; “ I knew  that  this  prisoner, 
of  whom  I speak,  had  been  confined  in  a cell  known  as 
One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.  I knew  it  from 
himself.  He  knew  himself  by  no  other  name  than  One 
Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower,  when  he  made  shoes 
under  my  care.  As  I serve  my  gun  that  day,  I resolve 
when  the  place  shall  fall,  to  examine  that  cell.  It  falls. 
I mount  to  the  cell,  with  a fellow-citizen  who  is  one  of 
the  J ury,  directed  by  a gaoler.  I examine  it,  very  closely. 
In  a hole  in  the  chimney,  where  a stone  had  been  worked 
out  and  replaced,  I find  a written  paper.  This  is  that 
written  paper.  I have  made  it  my  business  to  examine 
some  specimens  of  the  writing  of  Doctor  Manette.  This 


282 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


is  the  writing  of  Doctor  Manette.  I confide  this  paper, 
in  the  writing*  of  Doctor  Manette,  to  the  hands  of  the 
President,  ” 

“ Let  it  be  read.” 

In  a dead  silence  and  stillness — the  prisoner  under 
trial  looking  lovingly  at  his  wife,  his  wife  only  looking 
from  him  to  look  with  solicitude  at  her  father.  Doctor 
Manette  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  reader,  Madame 
Defarge  never  taking  hers  from  the  prisoner,  Defarge 
never  taking  his  from  his  feasting  wife,  and  all  the 
other  eyes  there  intent  upon  the  Doctor,  who  saw  none 
of  them-— the  paper  was  read,  as  follows. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Substance  of  the  Shadow. 

“ I,  Alexandre  Manette,  unfortunate  physician,  na- 
tive of  Beauvais  and  afterwards  resident  in  Paris,  write 
this  melancholy  paper  in  my  doleful  cell  in  the  Bastille, 
during  the  last  month  of  the  year  1767.  I write  it  at 
stolen  intervals,  under  every  difficulty.  I design  to 
secrete  it  in  the  wall  of  the  chimney,  where  I have 
slowly  and  laboriously  made  a place  of  concealment  for 
it.  Some  pitying  hand  may  find  it  there,  when  I and 
my  sorrows  are  dust. 

“ These  words  are  formed  by  the  rusty  iron  point  with 
which  I write  with  difficulty  in  scrapings  of  soot  and 
charcoal  from  the  chimney,  mixed  with  blood,  in  the 
last  month  of  the  tenth  year  of  my  captivity.  Hope  has 
quite  departed  from  my  breast.  I know  from  terrible 
warnings  I have  noted  in  myself  that  my  reason  will  not 
long  remain  unimpaired,  but  I solemnly  declare  that  I am 
at  this  time  in  the  possession  of  my  right  mind — that 
my  memory  is  exact  and  circumstantial — and  that  I 
write  the  truth  as  I shall  answer  for  these  my  last  re- 
corded words,  whether  they  be  ever  read  by  men  or  not, 
at  the  Eternal  Judgment-seat. 

“One  cloudy  moonlight  night,  in  the  third  week  of 
December  (I  think  the  twenty-second  of  the  month),  in 
the  year  1757,  1 was  walking  on  a retired  part  of  the 
quay  by  the  Seine  for  the  refreshment  of  the  frosty  air, 
at  an  hour’s  distance  from  my  place  of  residence  in  the 
Street  of  the  School  of  Medicine,  when  a carriage  came 
along  behind  me,  driven  very  fast.  As  I stood  aside  to 
let  that  carriage  pass,  apprehensive  that  it  might  other- 
wise run  me  down,  a head  was  put  out  at  the  window, 
and  a voice  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 

“The  carriage  stopped  as  soon  as  the  driver  could  rein 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


283 


in  Ms  "horses,  and  the  same  voice  called  to  me  by  my 
name.  I answered.  The  carriage  was  then  so  far  in  ad- 
vance of  me  that  two  gentlemen  had  time  to  open  the 
door  and  alight  before  I came  up  with  it.  I observed 
that  they  were  both  wrapped  in  cloaks,  and  appeared  to 
conceal  themselves.  As  they  stood  side  by  side  near  the 
cairiag8  door,  I also  observed  that  they  both  looked  of 
about  my  own  age,  or  rather  younger,  and  that  they  were 
greatly  alike,  in  stature,  manner,  voice,  and  (as  far  as  I 
could  see)  face  too. 

“ " You  are  Doctor  Manette  ? ’ said  one. 

""  * I am/ 

“ " Doctor  Manette,  formerly  of  Beauvais/  said  the 
other ; 4 the  young  physician,  originally  an  expert  sur- 
geon, who  within  the  last  year  or  two,  has  made  a rising 
reputation  in  Paris  ? ’ 

""  " Gentlemen/  I returned,  " I am  that  Doctor  Manette 
of  whom  you  speak  so  graciously/ 

“ " We  have  been  to  your  residence/  said  the  first/  and 
not  being  so  fortunate  as  to  find  you  there,  and  being  in- 
formed that  you  were  probably  walking  in  this  direction, 
we  followed,  in  the  hope  of  overtaking  you.  Will  you 
please  to  enter  the  carriage  ? ' 

“The  manner  of  both  was  imperious,  and  they  both 
moved,  as  these  words  were  spoken,  so  as  to  place  me 
between  themselves  and  the  carriage  door.  They  were 
armed.  I was  not. 

""  " Gentlemen/  said  I,  "pardon  me  ; but  I usually  in- 
quire who  does  me  the  honour  to  seek  my  assistance,  and 
what  is  the  nature  of  the  case  to  which  I am  summoned/ 

""  The  reply  to  this,  was  made  by  him  who  had  spoken 
second.  "Doctor,  your  clients  are  people  of  condition. 
As  to  the  nature  of  the  case,  our  confidence  in  your  skill 
assures  us  that  you  will  ascertain  it  for  yourself  better 
than  we  can  describe  it.  Enough.  Will  you  please  to 
enter  the  carriage  ? * 

""  I could  do  nothing  but  comply,  and  I entered  it  in 
silence.  They  both  entered  after  me — the  last  springing 
in,  after  putting  up  the  steps.  The  carriage  turned  about, 
and  drove  on  at  its  former  speed. 

""  I repeat  this  conversation  exactly  as  it  occurred.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  it  is,  word  for  word,  the  same.  I de- 
scribe everything  exactly  as  it  took  place,  constraining  my 
mind  not  to  wander  from  the  task.  Where  I make  the 
broken  marks  that  follow  here,  I leave  off  for  the  time, 
and  put  my  paper  in  its  hiding-place.  ****** 

""  The  carriage  left  the  streets  behind,  passed  the  ISorth 
Barrier,  and  emerged  upon  the  country  road.  At  two- 
thirds  of  a league  from  the  Barrier — I did  not  estimate 
the  distance  at  that  time,  bn  t afterwards  when  I traversed 
it— it  struck  out  of  the  main  avenue,  and  presently  stopped 


284 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


at  a solitary  house.  We  all  three  alighted,  and  walked, 
by  a damp  soft  footpath  in  a garden  where  a neglected 
fountain  had  overflowed,  to  the  door  of  the  house.  It 
was  not  opened  immediately,  in  anc  wer  to  the  ringingof 
the  bell,  and  one  of  my  two  conductors  struck  the  man 
who  opened  it,  with  his  heavy  riding-glove,  across  the 
face. 

‘ ‘ There  was  nothing  in  this  action  to  attract  my  par- 
ticular attention,  for  I had  seen  common  people  struck 
more  commonly  than  dogs.  But,  the  other  of  the  two, 
being  angry  likewise,  struck  the  man  in  like  manner 
with  his  arm  ; the  look  and  bearing  of  the  brothers  were 
then  so  exactly  alike,  that  I then  first  perceived  them  to 
be  twin  brothers. 

‘From  the  time  of  our  alighting  at  the  outer  gate 
(which  we  found  locked,  and  which  one  of  the  brothers 
had  opened  to  admit  us,  and  had  re-locked),  I had  heard 
cries  proceeding  from  an  upper  chamber.  I was  conduct- 
ed to  this  chamber  straight,  the  cries  growing  louder  as 
we  ascended  the  stairs,  and  I found  a patient  in  a high 
fever  of  the  brain,  lying  upon  a bed. 

“ The  patient  was  a woman  of  great  beauty,  and 
young  ; assuredly  not  much  past  twenty.  Her  hair  was 
torn  and  ragged,  and  her  arms  were  bound  to  her  sides 
with  sashes  and  handkerchiefs.  I noticed  that  these 
bonds  were  all  portions  of  a gentleman's  dress.  On  one 
of  them,  which  was  a fringed  scarf  for  a dress  of  cere, 
mony,  I saw  the  armorial  bearing  of  a Noble,  and  the 
letter  E. 

**  I saw  this,  within  the  first  minute  of  my  contempla- 
tion of  the  patient  ; for,  in  her  restless  strivings  she  had 
turned  over  on  her  face  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  had  drawn 
1 the  end  of  the  scarf  into  her  mouth,  and  was  in  danger  of 
suifocation.  My  first  act  was  to  put  out  my  hand  to  re- 
lieve her  breathing  ; and  in  moving  the  scarf  aside,  the 
embroidery  in  the  corner  caught  my  sight. 

“ I turned  her  gently  over,  placed  my  hands  upon  her 
breast  to  calm  her  and  keep  her  down,  and  looked  into 
her  face.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and  wild,  and  she  con- 
stantly uttered  piercing  shrieks,  and  repeated  the  words, 
‘ My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother  ! * and  then 
counted  up  to  twelve,  and  said,  f Hush  ! ' For  an  instant, 
and  no  more,  she  would  pause  to  listen,  and  then  the 
piercing  shrieks  would  begin  again,  and  she  would  re- 
peat the  cry,  ‘ My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother  ! ' 
and  would  count  up  to  twelve,  and  say  ‘ Hush  ! ' There 
was  no  variation  in  the  order,  or  the  manner.  There  was 
no  cessation,  but  the  regular  moment’s  pause,  in  the  ut- 
terance of  these  sounds. 

“ ‘ How  long,’  1 asked,  ‘ has  this  lasted  ? ' 

“To  distinguish  tne  brothers,  I will  call  them  the 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


285 


elder  and  the  younger  ; by  the  elder,  I mean  him  who 
exercised  the  most  authority.  It  was  the  elder  who 
replied,  ‘ Since  about  this  hour  last  night/ 

“ * She  has  a husband,  a father,  and  a brother?  1 
“‘  A brother/ 

“ f I do  not  address  her  brother  V 

“He  answered  with  great  contempt,  * No/ 

* ‘ She  has  some  recent  association  with  the  number 
twelve  ?* 

“The  younger  brother  impatiently  rejoined,  'With 
twelve  o’clock  ? 9 

**  * See,  gentlemen/  said  I,  still  keeping  my  hands  upon 
her  breast,  ‘ how  useless  I am  as  you  have  brought  me  ! 
If  I had  known  what  I was  coming  to  see,  I could  have 
come  provided.  As  it  is,  time  must  be  lost.  There  are 
no  medicines  to  be  obtained  in  this  lonely  place/ 

“ The  elder  brother  looked  at  the  younger,  who  said 
haughtily,  ' There  is  a case  of  medicines  here  ; 9 and 
brought  it  from  a closet,  and  put  it  on  the  table.  ****** 
“ I opened  some  of  the  bottles,  smelt  them,  and  put 
the  stoppers  to  my  lips.  If  I had  wanted  to  use  anything 
save  narcotic  medicines  that  were  poisons  in  themselves, 
I would  not  have  administered  any  of  those.  ' 

“ ‘ Do  you  doubt  them  V asked  the  younger  brother. 

“ ‘ You  see,  monsieur,  I am  going  to  use  them,''  I re- 
plied, and  said  no  more. 

“ I made  the  patient  swallow,  with  great  difficulty,  and 
after  many  efforts,  the  dose  that  I desired  to  give.  As  I 
intended  to  repeat  it  after  a while,  and  as  it  was  necessary 
to  watch  its  influence,  I then  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the 
bed.  There  w^as  a timid  and  suppresed  woman  in  attend- 
ance (wife  of  the  man  down-stairs),  who  had  retreated 
into  a corner.  The  house  was  damp  and  decayed,  indif- 
ferently furnished — evidently,  recently  occupied  and 
temporarily  used.  Some  thick  old  hangings  had  been 
Hailed  up  before  the  windows,  to  deaden  the  sound  of 
the  shrieks.  They  continued  to  be  uttered  in  their  regu- 
lar succession,  with  the  cry,  ' My  husband,  my  father, 
my  brother  I ’ the  counting  up  to  twelve,  and  ‘ Hush  1 ’ 
The  frenzy  was  so  violent,  that  I had  not  unfastened  the 
bandages  restraining  the  arms  ; but,  I had  looked  to  them  , 
to  see  that  they  were  not  painful.  The  only  spark  of 
encouragement  in  the  case,  was,  that  my  hand  upon  the 
sufferer’s  breast  had  this  much  soothing  influence,  that 
for  minutes  at  a time  it  tranquillised  the  figure.  It  had 
no  effect  upon  the  cries  ; no  pendulum  could  be  more 
regular. 

“For  the  reason  that  my  hand  had  this  effect  (I  as- 
sume), I sat  by  the  side  of  the  bed  for  a half  an  hour, 
with  the  two  brothers  looking  on,  before  the  elder  said  : 
“ ' There  is  another  patient.’ 


286 


WORKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


“ I was  startled,  and  asked,  c Is  it  a pressing  case  ? ; . 

“ 4 You  had  better  see,  he  carelessly  answered  ; and. 
took  up  a light.  # * * * * 

“ The  other  patient  lay  in  a back  room  across  a sec- 
ond staircase,  which  was  species  of  loft  over  a stable. 
There  was  a low  plastered  ceiling  to  a part  of  it  ; the 
.rest  was  open,  to  the  ridge  of  the  tiled  roof,  and  there 
were  beams  across.  Hay  and  straw  were  stored  in  that 
portion  of  the  place,  fagots  for  firing,  and  a heap  of  ap- 
ples in  sand.  I had  to  passthrough  that  part,  to  get  at 
the  other.  My  memory  is  circumstantial  and  unshaken. 
I try  it  with  these  details,  and  I see  them  all,  in  this  my 
cell  in  the  Bastille,  near  the  close  of  the  tenth  year  of 
my  captivity,  as  I saw  them  all  that  night. 

‘‘On  some  hay  on  the  ground,  with  a cushion  thrown 
under  his  head,  lay  a handsome  peasant  boy — a boy  of 
not  more  than  seventeen  at  the  most.  He  lay  on  his 
back,  with  his  teeth  set,  his  right  hand  clenched  on  his 
breast,  and  his  glaring  eyes  looking  straight  upward. 
I could  not  see  where  his  wound  was,  as  I kneeled  on 
one  knee  over  him  ; but,  I could  see  that  he  was  dying 
of  a wound  from  a sharp  point. 

“ ‘ I am  a doctor,  my  poor  fellow/  said  I.  * Let  me 
examine  it.’ 

£<  4 1 do  not  want  it  examined/  he  answered  ; ‘ let  it  he/ 

“ It  was  under  his  hand,  and  I soothed  him  to  lei  me 
move  his  hand  away.  The  wound  was  a sword-thrust, 
received  from  twenty  to  twenty-four  hours  before,  but 
no  skili  could  have  saved  him  if  it  had  been  looked  to 
without  delay.  He  was  then  dying  fast.  As  I turned 
my  eyes  to  the  elder  brother,  I saw  him  looking  down 
at  this  handsome  boy  whose  life  was  ebbing  out,  as  if  he 
were  a wounded  bird,  or  hare,  or  rabbit  ; not  at  all 
as  if  he  were  a fellow-creature. 

“ ‘ How  has  this  been  done,  monsieur?’  said  I. 

“‘A  crazed  young  common  dog!  A serf!  Forced 
my  brother  to  draw  upon  him,  and  has  fallen  by  my 
brother’s  sword — like  a gentleman.’ 

“ There  was  no  touch  of  pity,  sorrow,  or  kindred  hu- 
manity, in  this  answer.  The  speaker  seemed  to  acknowl- 
edge that  it  was  inconvenient  to  have  that  different  or- 
der of  creature  dying  there,  and  that  it  would  have  been 
better  if  he  had  died  in  the  usual  obscure  routine  of  Ins 
vermin  kind.  He  was  quite  incapable  of  any  compas- 
sionate feeling  about  the  boy,  or  about  his  fate. 

“ The  boy’s  eyes  had  slowly  moved  to  him  as  he  had 
spoken,  and  they  now  slowly  moved  to  me. 

“ ‘ Doctor,  they  are  very  proud,  these  Nobles  ; hut  we 
common  dogs  are  proud  too,  sometimes.  They  plunder 
us,  outrage  us,  beat  us,  kill  us  ; but  we  have  a little 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


287 


pride  left,  sometimes.  She — have  you  seen  her,  Doc- 

tor? ’ 

“ The  shrieks  and  the  cries  were  audible  there,  though 
subdued  by  the  distance.  He  referred  to  them,  as  if  she 
were  lying  in  our  presence. 

“ I said,  'I  have  seen  her.’ 

“ * She  is  my  sister,  Doctor,  They  have  had  their 
shameful  rights,  these  Nobles,  in  the  modesty  and  vir- 
tue of  our  sisters,  many  years,  but  we  have  had  good 
girls  among  us.  I know  it,  and  have  heard  my  father 
say  so.  She  was  a good  girl.  She  was  betrothed  to  a 
good  young  man,  too  : a tenant  of  his.  We  were  all 
tenants  of  his — that  man’s  who  stands  there.  The  other 
is  his  brother,  the  worst  of  a bad  race.  ’ 

“ It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  the  boy  gath- 
ered bodily  force  to  speak  ; but,  his  spirit  spoke  with  a 
dreadful  emphasis. 

“‘We  were  so  robbed  by  that  man  -who  stands  there, 
as  all  we  common  dogs  are  by  those  superior  Beings — 
taxed  by  him  without  mercy,  obliged  to  work  for  him 
without  pay,  obliged  to  grind  our  com  at  his  mill,  obliged 
to  feed  scores  of  his  tame  birds  on  our  wretched  crops, 
and  forbidden  for  our  lives  to  keep  a single  tame  bird  of 
our  own,  pillaged  and  plundered  to  that  degree  that 
when  we  chanced  to  have  a bit  of  meat,  we  ate  it  in  fear, 
with  the  door  barred  and  the  shutters  closed,  that  his 
people  should  not  see  it  and  take  it  from  us — I say,  we 
were  so  robbed,  and  hunted,  and  were  made  so  poor, 
that  our  father  told  us  it  was  a dreadful  thing  to  bring  a 
child  into  the  world,  and  that  what  we  should  most  pray 
for,  was,  that  our  women  might  he  barren  and  our  miser- 
able race  die  out.’ 

“ I had  never  before  seen  the  sense  of  being  oppressed, 
bursting  forth  like  a fire.  I had  supposed  that  it  must 
be  latent  in  the  people  somewhere  ; but,  I had  never  seen 
it  break  out,  until  I saw  it  in  the  dying  boy. 

**  ‘Nevertheless,  Doctor,  my  sister  married.  He  was 
ailing  at  that  time,  poor  fellow,  and  she  married  her  lov- 
er, that  she  might  tend  and  comfort  him  in  our  cottage-- 
our  dog-hut,  as  that  man  wrould  call  it.  She  had  not 
been  married  many  weeks,  when  that  man’s  brother  saw 
her  and  admired  her,  and  asked  that  man  to  lend  her  to 
him — for  what  are  husbands  among  us  ! He  was  will- 
ing enough,  but  my  sister  was  good  and  virtuous,  and 
hated  his  brother  with  a hatred  as  strong  as  mine. 
What  did  the  two  then,  to  persuade  her  husband  to 
use  his  influence  with  her,  to  make  her  willing  ? ’ 

The  hoy’s  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed  on  mine,  slowly 
turned  to  the  looker-on,  and  I saw  in  the  two  faces  that 
all  he  said  was  true.  The  two  opposing  kinds  of  prid^ 
confronting  one  another,  I can  see,  even  in  this  Bastille  • 


288 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  gentleman’s,  all  negligent  indifference  ; the  peasant’s, 
all  trodden-down  sentiment,  and  passionate  revenge. 

44  4 You  know.  Doctor,  tliat  it  is  among  the  Rights  of 
these  Nobles  to  harness  us  common  dogs  to  carts,  and 
drive  us.  They  so  harnessed  him  and  drove  him.  You 
know  that  it  is  among  their  Rights  to  keep  us  in  their 
grounds  all  night,  quieting  the  frogs,  in  order  that  their 
noble  sleep  may  not  be  disturbed.  They  kept  him  out  in 
the  unwholesome  mists  at  night,  and  ordered  him  hack 
into  his  harness  in  the  day.  But  he  was  not  persuaded. 
No  ! Taken  out  of  harness  one  day  at  noon,  to  feed — if 
he  could  hud  food — ha  sobbed  twelve  times,  once  for 
every  stroke  of  the  bell,  and  died  on  her  bosom.’ 

44  Nothing  human  could  have  held  life  in  the  boy  but 
his  determination  to  tell  all  his  wrong.  He  forced  back 
the  gathering  shadows  of  death,  as  he  forced  his 
clenched  right  hand  to  remain  clenched,  and  to  cover  his 
wound. 

4 ‘ ‘ Then,  with  that  man’s  permission  and  even  with 
his  aid,  his  brother  took  her  away  ; in  spite  of  what  I 
know  she  must  have  told  his  brother— and  what  that  is, 
will  not  he  long  unknown  to  you,  Doctor,  if  it  is  now — 
his  brother  took  her  away — for  his  pleasure  and  diver- 
sion, for  a little  while.  I saw  her  pass  me  on  the  road. 
When  I took  the  tidings  home,  our  father’s  heart  burst ; 
he  never  spoke  one  of  the  words  that  filled  it.  I took  my 
young  sister  (for  I have  another)  to  a place  beyond  the 
reach  of  this  man,  and  where,  at  least,  she  will  never  be 
Ms  vassal.  Then,  I tracked  the  brother  here,  and  last 
night  climbed  in — a common  dog,  but  sword  in  hand. — - 
Where  is  the  loft  window?  It  was  somewhere  here  V 

44  The  room  was  darkening  to  his  sight  ; the  world  was 
narrowing  around  him.  I glanced  about  me,  and  saw 
that  the  hay  and  straw  were  trampled  over  the  floor,  as 
if  there  had  been  a struggle. 

44  4 She  heard  me,  and  ran  in.  I told  her  not  to  come 
near  us  till  he  was  dead.  He  came  in  and  first  tossed 
me  some  pieces  of  money  ; then  struck  at  me  with  a 
whip.  But  I,  though  a common  dog,  so  struck  at  him  as 
to  make  him  draw.  Let  him  break  into  as  many  pieces 
as  he  will,  the  sword  that  he  stained  with  my  common 
blood  ; he  drew  to  defend  himself— -thrust  at  me  with  all 
his  skill  for  his  life.’ 

44  My  glance  had  fallen,  but  a few  moments  before,  on 
the  fragments  of  a broken  sword,  lying  among  the  hay. 
That  weapon  was  a gentleman’s.  In  another  place,  lay 
an  old  sword  that  seemed  to  have  been  a soldier’s. 

44  4 Now,  lift  me  up,  Doctor  ; lift  me  up.  Where  is 
he?’ 

44  4 He  is  not  here,’  I said,  supporting  the  boy,  and 
thinking  that  he  referred  to  the  brother. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


289 


* <e  s He  ! Proud  as  these  nobles  are,  he  is  afraid  to  see 
me.  Where  is  the  man  who  was  here  ? Turn  my  face 
to  him." 

“ I did  so,  raising  the  boy’s  head  against  my  knee. 
J3ut,  invested  for  the  moment  with  extraordinary  power, 
he  raised  himself  completely  : obliging  me  to  rise  too, 
or  I could  not  have  still  supported  him. 

“ 4 Marquis/  said  the  boy,  turned  to  him  with  his  eyes 
opened  wide  and  his  right  hand  raised,  ‘ in  the  days 
when  all  these  things  are  to  be  answered  for,  I summon 
you,  and  yours  to  the  last  of  your  bad  race,  to  answer  for 
them.  I mark  this  cross  of  blood  upon  you,  as  a si£n 
that  I do  it.  In  the  days  when  all  these  things  are  to 
be  answered  for,  I summon  your  brother,  the  worst  of 
the  bad  race,  to  answer  for  them  separately.  I mark 
this  cross  of  blood  upon  him,  as  a sign  that  I do  it.’ 

“ Twice,  he  put  his  hand  to  the  wound  in  his  breast, 
and  ’ with  his  forefinger  drew  a cross  in  the  air.  He 
Stood  for  an  instant  with  the  finger  yet  raised,  and,  as 
it  dropped,  he  dropped  with  it,  and  I laid  him  down 
dead  * * * * 

“ When  I returned  to  the  bedside  of  the  young  woman, 
I found  her  raving  in  precisely  the  same  order  and  con- 
tinuity. I knew  that  this  might  last  for  many  hours, 
and  that  it  would  probably  end  in  the  silence  of  thq 
grave. 

“ I repeated  the  medicines  I had  given  her,  and  I sat 
at  the  side  of  the  bed  until  the  night  was  far  advanced. 
She  never  abated  the  piercing  quality  of  her  shrieks, 
never  stumbled  in  the  distinctness  or  the  order  of  her 
words.  They  were  always  ‘ My  husband,  my  father, 
and  my  brother  ! One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven, 
eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve.  Hush  !’ 

“ This  lasted  twenty-six  hours  from  the  time  when  I 
first  saw  her.  I had  come  and  gone  twice,  and  was 
again  sitting  by  her,  when  she  began  to  falter.  I did 
what  little  could  be  done  to  assist  that  opportunity,  and 
by-and-by  she  sank  into  a lethargy,  and  lay  like  the 
dead. 

“ It  was  as  if  the  wind  and  rain  had  lulled  at  last, 
after  a long  and  fearful  storm.  I released  her  arms, 
and  called  the  woman  to  assist  me  to  compose  her  figure 
and  the  dress  she  had  torn.  It  was  then  that  I knew 
her  condition  to  be  that  of  one  in  whom  the  first  expec- 
tations of  being  a mother  have  arisen  ; and  it  was  then 
that  I lost  the  little  hope  I had  had  of  her. 

“ ‘ Is  she  dead  V asked  the  Marquis,  whom  I will  still 
describe  as  the  elder  brother,  coming  booted  into  the 
room  from  his  horse. 

“ ‘ Not  dead/  said  I ; ‘ but  like  to  dieo’ 

-M 


Voi..  11 


-A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  290 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


291 


“ 4 What  strength  there  is  in  these  common  bodies  \9 
he  said,  looking  down  at  her  with  some  curiosity. 

“ ‘ There  is  prodigious  strength/  I answered  him,  ‘ iq 
sorrow  and  despair.' 

“He  first  laughed  at  my  words,  and  then  frowned  at 
them.  He  moved  a chair  with  his  foot  near  to  mine, 
ordered  the  woman  away,  and  said  in  a subdued  voice, 

“ ‘ Doctor,  finding  my  brother  in  this  difficulty  with 
these  hinds,  I recommended  that  your  aid  should  be  in- 
vited. Your  reputation  is  high,  and,  as  a young  man 
with  your  fortune  to  make,  you  are  probably  mindful  of 
your  interest.  The  things  that  you  see  here,  are  things 
to  be  seen,  and  not  spoken  of.  ’ 

“ I listened  to  the  patient's  breathing,  and  avoided 
answering. 

“ ' Do  you  honour  me  with  your  attention,  Doctor?' 

“ ‘ Monsieur,’  said  I,  4 in  my  profession,  the  communi- 
cations of  patients  are  always  received  in  confidence.’  I 
was  guarded  in  my  answer,  for  I was  troubled  in  my 
mind  by  what  I had  heard  and  seen. 

“ Her  breathing  was  so  difficult  to  trace,  that  I care- 
fully tried  the  pulse  and  the  heart.  There  was  life,  and 
no  more.  Looking  round  as  I resumed  my  seat,  I found 
both  the  brothers  intent  upon  me.  * * * * * 

“ I write  with  so  much  difficulty,  the  cold  is  so  severe, 
I am  so  fearful  of  being  detected  and  consigned  to  an 
underground  cell  and  total  darkness,  that  I must  abridge 
this  narrative.  There  is  no  confusion  or  failure  in  my 
memory  ; it  can  recal,  and  could  detail,  every  word  that 
was  ever  spoken  between  me  and  those  brothers. 

“ She  lingered  for  a week.  Towards  the  last,  I could 
understand  some  few  syllables  that  she  said  to  me,  by 
placing  my  ear  close  to  her  lips.  She  asked  me  where 
she  was,  and  I told  her  ; who  I was,  and  I told  her.  It 
was  in  vain  that  I asked  her  for  her  family  name.  She 
faintly  shook  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  kept  her 
secret  as  the  boy  had  done. 

“ I had  no  opportunity  of  asking  her  any  question, 
until  I had  told  the  brothers  she  was  sinking  fast,  and 
could  not  live  another  day.  Until  then,  though  no  one 
was  ever  presented  to  her  consciousness  save  the  woman 
and  myself,  one  or  other  of  them  had  always  jealously 
sat  behind  the  curtain  at  the  head  of  the  bed  when  I was 
there.  But  when  it  came  to  that,  they  seemed  careless 
what  communication  I might  hold  with  her  ; as  if — the 
thought  passed  through  my  mind — I were  dying  too. 

“ I always  observed  that  their  pride  bitterly  resented 
the  younger  brother’s  (as  I call  him)  having  crossed 
swords  with  a peasant,  and  that  peasant  a boy.  The 
only  consideration  that  appeared  really  to  affect  the 


292 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


mind  of  either  of  them,  was  the  consideration  that  thi$ 
was  highly  degrading  to  the  family,  and  was  ridiculous. 
As  often  as  I caught  the  younger  brother's  eyes,  thefr 
expression  rejninded  me  that  he  disliked  me  deeply,  for 
knowing  what  I knew  from  the  boy.  He  was  smoother 
and  more  polite  to  me  than  the  elder  ; but  I saw  this. 
I also  saw  that  I was  an  encumbrance  in  the  mind  of  the 
elder  too. 

“ My  patient  died,  two  hours  before  midnight — at  a 
time,  by  my  watch,  answering  almost  to  the  minute 
when  I had  first  seen  her.  I was  a^>ne  with-  her,  when 
her  forlorn  young  head  drooped  gently  on  one  side,  and 
all  her  earthly  wrongs  and  sorrows  ended. 

“ The  brothers  were  waiting  in  a room  down-stairs, 
impatient  to  ride  away.  I had  heard  them,  alone  at  the 
bedside,  striking  their  boots  with  their  riding- whips,  and 
loitering  up  and  down. 

“ ‘ At  last  she  is  dead  ?'  said  the  elder,  when  I went 
in: 

“ * She  is  dead/  said  I. 

“ ‘ I congratulate  you,  my  brother.'  were  his  words  as 
he  turned  round. 

“ He  had  before  offered  me  money,  which  I had  post- 
poned taking.  He  now  gave  me  a rouleau  of  gold.  I 
took  it  from  his  hand,  but  laid  it  on  the  table  I had 
considered  the  question,  and  had  resolved  to  accept 
nothing. 

**  * Pray  excuse  me/  said  I.  * Under  the  circumstan- 
ces, no.' 

“ They  exchanged  looks,  but  bent  their  heads  to  me 
as  I bent  mine  to  them,  and  we  parted  without  another 
word  on  either  side.  * * * * 

I am  weary,  weary,  weary — worn  down  by  misery. 
I cannot  read  what  1 have  written  with  this  gaunt  hand. 

“ Early  in  the  morning,  the  rouleau  of  gold  was  left 
at  my  door  in  a little  box,  with  my  name  on  the  outside. 
From  the  first,  I L?.d  anxiously  considered  what  I ought 
to  do.  I decided,  that  day,  to  write  privately  to  the 
Minister,  stating  the  nature  of  the  two  cases  to  which  I 
had  been  summoned,  and  the  place  to  which  I had  gone  : 
in  effect,  stating  all  the  circumstances.  I knew  what 
Court  influence  was,  and  what  the  immunities'  of  the 
Nobles  were,  and  I expected  that  the  matter  would  neve? 
be  heard  of  ; but,  I wished  to  relieve  my  own  mind.  1 
had  kept  the  matter  a profound  secret,  even  from  nry 
wife  ; and  this,  too,  I resolved  to  state  in  my  letter.  1 
had  no  apprehension  whatever  of  my  real  danger  ; but,  I 
was  conscious  that  there  might  be  danger  for  others,  if 
others  were  compromised  by  possessing  the  knowledge 
that  I possessed. 

“ I was  much  engaged  that  day,  and  could  not  com- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


293 


plete  my  letter  that  night.  I rose  long  before  my  usual 
time  next  morning  to  finish  it  It  was  the  last  day  of 
the  year.  The  letter  was  lying  before  me,  just  completed, 
when  I was  told  that  a lady  waited,  who  wished  to  see 
me.  * * * 

“ I am  growingmore  and  more  unequal  to  the  task  I 
have  set  myself.  It  is  so  cold,  so  dark,  my  senses  are 
so  benumbed,  and  the  gloom  upon  me  is  so  dreadful. 

“ The  lady  was  young,  engaging,  and  handsome,  bu$ 
not  marked  for  long  life.  She  was*  in  great  agitation. 
She  presented  herself  to  me,  as  the  wife  of  the  Marquis 
St.  Evremonde.  I connected  the  title  by  which  the  boy 
had  addressed  the  elder  brother,  with  the  initial  letter 
embroidered  on  the  scarf,  and,  had  do  difficulty  in  ar- 
riving at  the  conclusion  that  I had  seen  that  nobleman 
very  lately. 

“My  memory  is  still  accurate,  but  I cannot  write  the 
words  of  our  conversation.  I suspect  that  I am  watched 
more  closely  than  I was,  and  I know  not  at  what  times 
I may  be  watched.  She  had  in  part  suspected,  and  in 
part  discovered,  the  main  facts  of  the  cruel  story,  of  her 
husband’s  share  in  it,  and  my  being  resorted  to.  She 
did  not  know  that  the  girl  was  dead.  Her  hope  had 
been,  she  said  in  great  distress,  to  show  her,  in  secret,  a 
woman’s  sympathy.  Her  hope  had  been  to  avert  th6 
wrath  of  Heaven  from  a House  that  had  long  been  hate- 
ful to  the  suffering  many. 

“ She  had  reasons  for  believing  that  there  was  a 
young  sister  living,  and  her  greatest  desire  was  to  help 
that  sister.  I could  tell  her  nothing  but  that  there  was 
such  a sister ; beyond  that,  I knew  nothing.  Her  in- 
ducement to  come  to  me,  relying  on  my  confidence,  had 
been  the  hope  that  I could  tell  her  the  name  and  place 
of  abode.  Whereas,  to  this  wretched  hour  I am  igno- 
rant of  both.  * * * * 

“These  scraps  of  paper  fail  me.  One  was  taken  from 
Me,  with  a warning,  yesterday.  I must  finish  my  record 
to-day. 

“ She  was  a good,  compassionate  lady,  and  not  happy 
in  her  marriage.  How  could  she  be  ! The  brother 
distrusted  and  disliked  her,  and  his  influence  was  all  op- 
posed to  her  ; she  stood  in  dread  of  him,  and  in  dread 
of  her  husband  too.  When  I handed  her  down  to  the 
door,  there  was  a child,  a pretty  boy  from  two  to  three 
years  old  in  her  carriage. 

“ ‘For  his  sake,  Doctor/  she  said,  pointing  to  him  in 
tears,  ‘ I would  do  all  I can  to  make  what  poor  amends 
I can.  He  will  never  prosper  in  his  inheritance  other- 
wise. I have  a presentiment  that  if  no  other  innocent 
atonement  is  made  for  this,  it  will  one  day  be  required 
of  him.  What  I have  left  to  call  my  own — it  is  little 


294 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


beyond  the  worth  of  a few  jewels — I will  make  it  the 
first  charge  of  his  life  to  bestow,  with  the  compassion  and 
lamenting  of  his  dead  mother,  on  this  injured  family,  if 
the  sister  can  be  discovered/ 

“ She  kissed  the  boy,  and  said,  caressing  him,  * It  is 
for  thine  own  dear  sake.  Thou  wilt  be  faithful,  little 
Charles  ? ? The  child  answered  her  bravely,  * Yes  ! ’ I 
kissed  her  hand,  and  she  took  him  in  her  arms,  and 
went  away  caressing  him.  I never  saw  her  more. 

“ As  she  had  mentioned  her  husband’s  name  in  the 
faith  that  I knew  it,  I added  no  mention  of  it  to  my 
letter.  I sealed  my  letter,  and,  not  trusting  it  out  of 
my  own  hands,  delivered  it  myself  that  day. 

“ That  night,  the  last  night  of  the  year,  towards 
nine  o’clock,  a man  in  a black  dress  rang  at  my  gate,  de- 
manded to  see  me,  and  softly  followed  my  servant, 
Ernest  Defarge,  a youth,  up-stairs.  When  my  servant 
came  into  the  room  where  I sat  with  my  wife — O my 
wife,  beloved  of  my  heart ! My  fair  young  English 
wife  ! — we  saw  the  man,  who  was  supposed  to  be  at  the 
gate,  standing  silent  behind  him. 

“An  urgent  case  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  he  said.  It 
would  not  detain  me,  he  had  a coach  in  waiting. 

“ It  brought  me  here,  it  brought  me  to  my  grave. 
When  I was  clear  of  the  house,  a black  muffler  was 
drawn  tightly  over  my  mouth  from  behind,  and  my 
arms  were  pinioned.  The  two  brothers  crossed  the  road 
from  a dark  corner,  and  identified  me  with  a single 
gesture.  The  Marquis  took  from  his  pocket  a letter  I 
had  written,  showed  it  me,  burnt  it  in  the  light  of  a 
lantern  that  was  held,  and  extinguished  the  ashes  with 
his  foot.  Not  a word  was  spoken.  I was  brought  here, 
I was  brought  to  my  living  grave. 

“If  it  had  pleased  God  to  put  it  in  the  hard  heart  of 
either  of  the  brothers,  in  all  these  frightful  years,  to 
grant  me  any  tidings  of  my  dearest  wife— so  much  as  to  let 
me  know  by  a word  whether  alive  or  dead — I might  have 
thought  that  He  had  not  quite  abandoned  them.  But,  now 
I believe  that  the  mark  of  the  red  cross  is  fatal  to  them, 
and  that  they  have  no  part  in  His  mercies.  And  them 
and  their  decendants,  to  the  last  of  their  race,  I Alexan- 
dre Manette,  unhappy  prisoner,  do  this  last  night  of  the 
year  1767,  in  my  unbearable  agony,  denounce  to  the 
times  when  all  these  things  shall  be  answered  for.  I 
denounce  them  to  Heaven  and  to  earth.” 

A terrible  sound  arose  when  the  reading  of  this  docu- 
ment was  done.  A sound  of  craving  and  eagerness  that 
had  nothing  articulate  in  it  but  blood.  The  narrative 
called  up  the  most  revengeful  passions  of  the  time,  and 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


295 


there  was  not  a head  in  the  nation  but  must  have 
dropped  before  it. 

Little  need,  in  presence  of  that  tribunal  and  that 
auditory,  to  show  how  the  Defarges  had  not  made  the 
paper  public,  with  the  other  captured  Bastille  memo- 
rials borne  in  procession,  and  had  kept  it,  biding  their 
time.  Little  need  to  show  that  this  detested  family 
name  had  been  long  anathematised  by  Saint  Antoine, 
and  was  wrought  into  the  fatal  register.  The  man 
never  trod  ground,  whose  virtues  and  services  would 
have  sustained  him  in  that  place  that  day,  against  such 
denunciation 

And  all  the  worse  for  the  doomed  man,  that  the  denoun- 
cer was  a well-known  citizen,  his  own  attached  friend, 
the  father  of  his  wife.  One  of  the  frenzied  aspirations 
of  the  populace  was,  for  imitations  of  the  questionable 
public  virtues  of  antiquity,  and  for  sacrifices  and  self- 
immolations  on  the  people’s  altar.  Therefore,  when  the 
President  said  (else  had  his  own  head  quivered  on  his 
shoulders)  that  the  good  physician  of  the  Republic  would 
deserve  better  still  of  the  Republic  by  rooting  out  an 
obnoxious  family  of  Aristocrats,  and  would  doubtless 
feel  a sacred  glow  and  joy  in  making  his  daughter 
a widow  and  her  child,  an  orphan,  there  was  wild 
excitement,  patriotic  fervour,  not  a touch  of  human 
sympathy. 

“ Much  influence  around  him,  has  that  Doctor  ? ” mur- 
mured Madame  Defarge,  smiling  to  The  Vengeance. 
“ Save  him  now,  my  Doctor,  save  him  ! ” 

At  every  juryman’s  vote,  there  was  a roar.  Another 
and  another.  Roar  and  roar. 

Unanimously  voted.  At  heart  and  by  descent  an  Aris- 
tocrat, an  enemy  of  the  Republic,  a notorious  oppressor 
of  the  People.  Back  to  the  Conciergerie,  and  Death 
within  four-and-twenty  hours ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

Dusk. 

The  wretched  wife  of  the  innocent  man  thus  doomed 
to  die,  fell  under  the  sentence,  as  if  she  had  been  mor- 
tally stricken.  But,  she  uttered  no  sound  ; and  so  strong 
was  the  voice  within  her,  representing  that  it  was  she  of 
all  the  world  who  must  uphold  him  in  his  misery  and 
not  augment  it,  that  it  quickly  raised  her,  even  from 
that  shock. 

The  judges  having  to  take  part  in  a public  demonstra- 
tion out  of  doors  the  tribunal  adjourned.  The  quick 
Boise  and  movement  of  the  court’s  emptying  itself  by 


296 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


many  passages  had  not  ceased,  when  Lucie  stood  stretch- 
ing out  her  arms  towards  her  husband,  with  nothing  in 
her  face  but  love  and  consolation. 

“ If  I might  touch  him  ! If  I might  embrace  him 
once  ! O,  good  citizens,  if  you  would  have  so  much 
compassion  for  us  ! ” 

There  was  but  a gaoler  left,  along  with  two  of  the 
four  men  who  had  taken  him  last  night,  and  Barsad. 
The  people  had  all  poured  out  to  the  show  in  the  streets. 
Barsad  proposed  to  the  rest,  “ L(?t.~tier  embrace  him, 
then  ; it  is  but  a moment.'*’  It  wa»  silently  acquiesced 
in,  and  they  passed  her  over  the  seats  in  the  hall  to  a 
raised  place,  where  he,  by  leaning  over  the  dock,  could 
fold  her  in  his  arms. 

“ Farewell,  dear  darling  of  my  soul.  My  parting 
blessing  on  my  love.  We  shall  meet  again,  where  the 
weary  are  at  rest  ! ” . 

They  were  her  husband’s  words,  as  he  held  her  to  his 
bosom. 

“I  can  bear  it,  dear  Charles.  I am  supported  from 
above  ; don’t  suffer  for  me.  A parting  blessing  for  our 
child.” 

“ I send  it  to  her  by  you.  I kiss  her  by  you.  I say 
farewell  to  her  by  you.” 

“ My  husband.  No!  A moment!”  He  was  tearing 
himself  apart  from  her.  “ We  shall  not  be  separated 
long.  I feel  that  this  will  break  my  heart  by-and-by  ; 
but  I will  do  my  duty  while  I can,  and  when  I leave 
her,  God  will  raise  up  friends  for  her,  as  He  did  for  me.  ” 

Her  father  had  followed  her,  and  would  have  fallen 
on  his  knees  to  both  of  them,  but  that  Darn^y  put  out  a 
hand  and  seized  him,  crying  : 

“No,  no!  What  have  you  done,  what  have  you 
done,  that  you  should  kneel  to  us  ! We  know  now, 
what  a struggle  you  made  of  old.  We  know  now,  what 
you  underwent  when  you  suspected  my  descent,  and 
when  you  knew  it.  We  know  now,  the  natural  antipa- 
thy, you  strove  against,  and 'conquered,  for  her  dear  sake. 
We  thank  you  with  all  our  hearts,  and  all  our  love  and 
duty.  Heaven  be  with  you  ! ” 

Her  father’s  only  answer  was  to  draw  his  hands 
through  his  white  hair,  and  wring  them  with  a shriek 
of  anguish. 

**  It  coukTnot  be  otherwise,"  said'  the  prisoner.  “ All 
things  have  worked  together  as  they  have  fallen  out. 
It  was  the  always  vain  endeavour  to  discharge  my  poor 
mother’s  trust,  that  first  brought  my  fatal  presence  near 
you.  Good  could  never  come  of  such  evil,  a happier 
end  was  not  in  nature  to  so  unhappy  a beginning.  Be 
comforted^  and  forgive  me.  Heaven  bless  you  ! ” 


AS  HE  WAS  DRAWN  AWAY*  HIS  WIFE  RELEASED  HIM,  AND  STOOD  LOOKING  AFTER  HIM. 

—A  Tale  o:  Two  Cities,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  297. 


298  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

As  lie  was  drawn  away,  liis  wife  released  him,  and 
stood  looking  after  him  with  her  hands  touching  cne 
another  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  and  with  a radiant 
look  upon  her  face,  in  which  there  was  even  a comfort- 
ing smile.  As  he  went  out  at  the  prisoners'  door,  she 
turned,  laid  her  head  lovingly  on  her  father's  breast, 
tried  to  speak  to*  him,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

Then,  issuing  from  the  obscure  corner  from  which  he 
had  never  moved,  Sydney  Carton  came  and -took  her  up. 
Only  her  father  and  Mr.  Lorry  were  with  her.  His  arm 
trembled  as  it  raised  her,  and  supported  her  head.  Yet, 
there  was  an  air  about  him  that  was  not  all  of  pity — that 
had  a flush  of  pride  in  it. 

“ Shall  I take  her  to  a coach  ? I shall  never  feel  her 
weight  ? ” 

He  carried  her  lightly  to  the  door,  and  laid  her  ten- 
derly down  in  a coach.  Her  father  and  their  old  friend 
got  into  it,  and  he  took  his  seat  beside  the  driver. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  gateway  where  he  had 
paused  in  the  dark  not  many  hours  before,  to  picture  to 
himself  on  which  of  the  rough" stones  of  the  street  her 
feet  had  trodden,  he  lifted  her  again,  and  carried  her 
up  the  staircase  to  their  rooms.  There,  he  laid  her 
down  on  a couch,  where  her  child  and  Miss  Pross  wept 
over  her. 

“ Don't  recal  her  to  herself,"  he  said,  softly,  to  the 
latter,  “ she  is  better  so  ; don’t  revive  her  to  conscious- 
ness, while  she  only  faints." 

“ Oh,  Carton,  Carton,  dear  Carton  ! " cried  little  Lucie, 
springing  up  and  throwing  her  arms  passionately  round 
him,  in  a*burst  of  grief.  “Now  that  you  have  come,  I 
think  you  will  do  something  to  help  mamma,  something 
to  save  papa  ! 0,  look  at  her,  dear  Carton  ! Can  you, 

of  all  the  people  who  love  her,  bear  to  see  her  so  ? " 

He  bent  over  the  child,  and  laid  her  blooming  cheek 
against  his  face.  He  put  her  gently  from  him,  and 
looked  at  her  unconscious  mother. 

‘‘  Before  I go,"  he  said,  and  paused. — “I  may  kiss 
her?" 

It  was  remembered  afterwards  that  when  he  bent 
down  and  touched  her  face  with  his  lips,  he  murmured 
some  words.  The  child,  who  was  nearest  to  him,  told 
them  afterwards,  and  told  her  grandchildren  when  she 
was  a handsome  old  lady,  that  she  heard  him  say,  “ A 
life  you  love." 

When  he  had  gone  out  into  the  next  room,  he  turned 
suddenly  on  Mr.  Lorry  and  her  father,  who  were  follow- 
ing, and  said  to  the  latter  : 

“ You  had  great  influence  but  yesterday,  Doctor  Man- 
ette  ; let  it,  at  least,  be  tried.  These  judges,  and  all  the 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


299 


men  in  power,  are  very  friendly  to  you,  and  very  recog- 
hisant  of  your  services  ; are  they  not  ? " 

“ Nothing  connected  with  Charles  was  concealed  from 
me.  I had  the  strongest  assurances  that  I should  save 
him  ; and  I did/'  He  returned  the  answer  in  great  trou- 
ble, and  very  slowly. 

* * Try  them  again.  The  hours  between  this  and  to- 
morrow afternoon  are  few  and  short,  but  try.  " 

“ I intend  to  try.  I will  not  rest  a moment/' 

“ That’s  well.  I have  known  such  energy  as  yours  do 
great  things  before  now — though  never,"  he  added,  with 
a smile  and  a sigh  together,  “ such  great  things  as  this. 
But  try  ! Of  little  worth  as  life  is  when  we  misuse  it, 
it  is  worth  that  effort.  It  would  cost  nothing  to  lay 
down  if  it  were  not/' 

“ I will  go,"  said  Doctor  Manette,  “to  the  Prosecutor 
and  the  President  straight,  and  I will  go  to  others  whom 
it  is  better  not  to  name.  I wTill  write  too,  and — But 
stay  ! There  is  a celebration  in  the  streets,  and  no  one 
will  be  accessible  until  dark." 

“ That's  true.  Well  ! It  is  a forlorn  hope  at  the  best, 
and  not  much  the  forlorner  for  being  delayed  till  dark. 
I should  like  to  know  how  you  speed  ; though,  mind  ! I 
expect  nothing  ! When  are  you  likely  to  have  seen 
these  dread  powers,  Doctor  Manette  ? " 

“ Immediately  after  dark,  I should  hope.  Within  m 
hour  or  two  from  this." 

“ It  will  be  dark  soon  after  four.  Let  us  stretch  the 
hour  or  two.  If  I go  to  Mr.  Lorry's  at  nine,  shall  I hear 
what  you  have  done,  either  from  our  friend  or  from 
vourself  ? " 

“Yes." 

“ May  you  prosper  ! " 

Mr.  Lorry  followed  Sydney  to  the  outer  door,  and,  touch- 
ing him  on  the  shoulder  as  he  was  going  away,  caused 
him  to  turn. 

“I  have  no  hope,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a low  and  sor- 
rowful whisper. 

“Nor  have  I."  • 

“ If  any  one  of  these  men,  or  all  of  these  men,  were 
disposed  to  spare  him — which  is  a large  supposition  ; for 
what  is  his  life,  or  any  man's  to  them  ! — I doubt  if  they 
durst  spare  him  after  the  demonstration  in  the  court. " 

“ And  so  do  I.  I heard  the  fall  of  the  axe  in  that 
sound." 

Mr.  Lorry  leaned  his  arm  upon  the  door-post,  and 
bowed  his  face  upon  it. 

“ Don’t  despond,"  said  Carton,  very  gently  ; “ don’t 
grieve.  I encouraged  Doctor  Manette  in  this  idea,  be- 
cause I felt  that  it  might  one  day  be  consolatory  to  her. 


300  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Otherwise,  she  might  think  ‘ his  life  was  wantonly 
thrown  away  or  wasted/  and  that  might  trouble  her.” 

“ Tes,  yes,  yes,”  returned  Mr.  Lorry,  drying  his  eyes, 
“ you  are  right.  But  he  will  perish;  there  is  no  real 
hope.” 

“ Yes.  He  will  perish  ; there  is  no  real  hope/'*  echoed 
Carton.  And  walked  with  a settled  step,  down  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Darkness. 

Sydney  Carton  paused  in  the  street,  not  quite  de- 
cided where  to  go.  “At  Tellson’s  banking-house  aft 
nine,”  he  said,  with  a musing  face.  ‘‘Shall  I do  well, 
in  the  mean  time,  to  show  myself?  I think  so.  It  i§ 
best  that  these  people  should  know  there  is  such  a map 
as  I here  ; it  is  a sound  precaution,  and  may  be  a neces- 
sary preparation.  But  care-;  care,  care  ! Let  me  think 
it  out  ! ” 

Checking  his  steps  which  had  begun  to  tend  towards 
an  object,  he  took  a turn  or  two  in  the  already  darken- 
ing street,  and  traced  the  thought  in  his  mind  to  its 
possible  consequences.  His  first  impression  was  con- 
firmed. “It  is  best,”  he  said,  finally  resolved,  “that 
these  people  should  know  there  is  such  a man  as  I here.” 
And  he  turned  his  face  towards  Saint  Antoine. 

Defarge  had  described  himself,  that  day,  as  the  keeper 
of  a wine-shop  in  the  Saint  Antoine  suburb.  It  was  not 
difficult  for  one  who  knew  the  city  well,  to  find  his  house 
without  asking  any  question.  Having  ascertained  its 
situation.  Carton  came  out  of  those  closer  streets  again, 
and  dined  at  a place  of  refreshment  and  fell  sound  asleep 
after  dinner.  For  the  first  time  in  many  years,  he  had 
no  strong  drink.  Since  last  night  he  had  taken  nothing 
but  a little  light  wine,  and  last  night  he  had  dropped  the 
brandy  slowly  down  on  Mr.  Lorry’s  hearth  like  a man 
who  had  done  with  It. 

It  was  as  late  as  seven  o’clock  when  he  awoke  re. 
freshed,  and  went  out  into  the  streets  again.  As  he 
passed  along  towards  Saint  Antoine,  he  stopped  at  a 
shop-window  where  there  was  a mirror,  and  slightly 
altered  the  disordered  arrangement  of  his  loose  cravat, 
and  his  coat-collar,  and  his  wild  hair.  This  done,  he 
went  on  direct  to  Defarge’s,  and  went  in. 

There  happened  to  be  no  customer  in  the  shop  but 
Jacques  Three,  of  the  restless  fingers  and  the  croaking 
voice.  This  man  whom  he  had  seen  upon  the  Juiy, 
stood  drinking  at  the  little  counter,  in  conversation  with 


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301 


the  Defarges,  man  and  wife.  The  Vengeance  assisted 
in  the  conversation,  like  a regular  member  of  the  estate 
lishment. 

As  Carton  walked  in,  took  his  seat,  and  asked  (in  very 
indifferent  French)  for  a small  measure  of  wine,  Madams 
t>efarge  cast  a careless  glance  at  him,  and  then  a keener, 
and  then  a keener,  and  then  advanced  to  him  herself, 
and  asked  him  what  it  was  he  had  ordered. 

He  repeated  what  he  had  already  said. 

“ English ?”  asked  Madame  Defarge,  inquisitively 
raising  her  dark  eyebrows. 

After  looking  at  her,  as  if  the  sound  of  even  a single 
French  word  were  slow  to  express  itself  to  him,  he  an- 
swered, in  his  former  strong  foreign  accent.  “Yes, 
madame,  yes.  I am  English  ! ” 

Madame  Defarge  returned  to  her  counter  to  get  the 
wine,  and,  as  he  took  up  a Jacobin  journal  and  feigned 
to  pore  over  it  puzzling  out  its  meaning,  he  heard  her 
say,  “ I swear  to  you,  like  Evremonde  ! ” 

Defarge  brought  him  the  wine,  and  gave  him  Good 
Evening. 

How?” 

“Good  evening.” 

“Oh  ! Good  evening,  citizen,”  filling  his  glass.  “ Ah  I 
and  good  wine.  I drink  to  the  Republic.” 

Defarge  went  to  the  counter,  and  said,  “Certainly,  a 
little  like.”  Madame  sternly  retorted,  “ I tell  you  a 
good  deal  like.”  Jacques  Three  pacifically  remarked, 
“ He  is  so  much  in  your  mind,  see  you,  madame.”  The 
amiable  Vengeance  added,  with  a laugh,  “ Yes,  my  faith  ! 
And  you  are  looking  forward  with  so  much  pleasure  tG 
seeing  him  once  more  to-morrow  ! ” 

Carton  followed  the  lines  and  words  of  his  paper,  with 
a slow  forefinger,  and  with  a studious  and  absorbed  face. 
They  were  all  leaning  their  arms  on  the  counter  close 
together,  speaking  low.  After  a silence  of  a few  mo- 
ments, during  which  they  all  looked  towards  him  with- 
out disturbing  his  outward  attention  from  the  Jacobin 
editor,  they  resumed  their  conversation. 

“It  is  true  what  madame  says,”  observed  Jacques 
Three.  “Why  stop?  There  is  great  force  in  that. 
Why  stopc?  ” 

“Well,  well,”  reasoned  Defarge,  “but  one  must  stop 
somewhere.  After  all,  the  question  is  still  where?” 

“ At  extermination,”  said  madame. 

“Magnificent!”  croaked  Jacques  Three.  The  Ven- 
geance, also,  highly  approved. 

“Extermination  is  good  doctrine,  my  wife,”  said  De- 
farge, rather  troubled  ; “in general,  I say  nothing  against 
it.  But  this  Doctor  has  suffered  much  ; you  have  seen 
him  to-day  ; you  have  observed  his  face  when  the  paper 
was  read.” 


302 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ee  I Lave  observed  his  face  ! ” repeated  madame  con- 
temptuously  and  angrily.  “Yes,  I have  observed  his 
face.  I have  observed  his  face  to  be  not  the  face  of  a 
true  friend  of  the  Republic.  Let  him  take  care  of  his 
face  ! ” 

“ And  you  have  observed,  my  wife/’  said  Defarge,  in 
a deprecatory  manner,  “ the  anguish  of  his  daughter, 
which  must  be  dreadful  anguish  to  him  ! ” 

“ I have  observed  his  daughter/’  repeated  madame  ; 
“yes,  I have  observed  his  daughter,  more  times  than 
one.  I have  observed  her  to-day,  and  I have  observed 
her  other  days.  I have  observed  her  in  the  court,  and  I 
have  observed  her  in  the  street  by  the  prison.  Let  me 
but  lift  my  finger — ! ” She  seemed  to  raise  it  (the  lis- 
tener’s eyes  were  always  on  his  paper),  and  to  let  it  fall 
with  a rattle  on  the  ledge  before  her,  as  if  the  axe  had 
dropped. 

“ The  citizeness  is  superb  ! ” croaked  the  Juryman. 

“She  is  an  Angel!”  said  The  Vengeance,  and  em- 
braced her. 

“As  to  thee,”  pursued  madame,  implacably,  address- 
ing her  husband,  “if  it  depended  on  thee — which,  hap- 
pily, it  does  not — thou  wouldst  rescue  this  man  even 
now.  ” 

“No  ! ” protested  Defarge.  “ Not  if  to  lift  this  glass 
would  do  it?  But  I would  leave  the  matter  there.  I 
say,  stop  there.” 

“ See  you  then,  Jacques,”  said  Madame  Defarge, 
wrathfully  ; “and  see  you,  too,  my  little  Vengeance; 
see  you  both  ! Listen  ! For  other  crimes  as  tyrants  and 
oppressors,  I have  this  race  a long  time  oivmy  register, 
doomed  to  destruction  and  extermination.  Ask  my  hus- 
band is  that  so.  ” 

“ It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge,  without  being  asked. 

xe  In  the  beginning  of  the  gjeat  days,  when  the  Bas- 
tille falls,  he  finds  this  paper  of  to-day,  and  he  brings  it 
home,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  this  place  is 
clear  and  shut,  we  read  it,  here  on  this  spot,  by  th§ 
light  of  this  lamp.  Ask  him,  is  that  so.” 

“ It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge. 

“ That  night,  I tell  him,  when  the  paper  is  read 
through,  and  ihe  lamp  is  burnt  out,  and  the  day  is  gleam- 
ing in  above  those  shutters  and  between  those  Iron  bars, 
that  I have  now  a secret  to  communicate.  Ask  him,  is 
that  so.” 

“ It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge  again. 

“ I communicate  to  him  that  secret.  I smite  this 
bosom  with  these  two  hands  as  I smite  it  now,  and  I tell 
him,  ‘ Defarge,  I was  brought  up  among  the  fishermen 
of  the  sea-shore,  and  that  peasant-family  so  injured  by 
the  two  Evremonde  brothers,  as  that  Bastille  paper  de- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


303 


scribes,  is  my  family.  Defarge,  tliat  sister  of  the  mor- 
tally wounded  boy  upon  the  ground  was  my  sister,  that 
husband  was  my  sister’s  husband,  that  unborn  child  was 
their  child,  that  brother  was  my  brother,  that  father 
was  my  father,  those  dead  are  my  dead,  and  that  sum- 
mons to  answer  for  those  things  descends  to  me  ! ’ Ask 
him,  is  that  so.” 

“It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge  once  more. 

“Then  tell  Wind  and  Fire  where  to  stop,”  returned 
madame  ; “but  don’t  tell  me.” 

Both  her  hearers  derived  a horrible  enjoyment  from 
the  deadly  nature  of  her  wrath — the  listener  could  feel 
how  wrhite  she  was,  without  seeing  her — and  botji  highly 
commended  it.  Defarge,  a weak  minority,  interposed  a 
few  words  for  the  memory  of  the  compassionate  wife  of 
the  Marquis  ; but,  only  elicited  from  his  own  wife  a rep- 
etition of  her  last  reply.  “ Tell  the  Wind  and  the  Fire 
where  to  stop  ; not  me  ! ” 

Customers  entered,  and  the  group  was  broken  up. 
The  English  customer  paid  for  what  he  had  had,  per- 
plexedly counted  his  change,  and  asked,  as  a stranger, 
to  be  directed  towards  the  National  Palace.  Madame 
Defarge  took  him  to  the  door,  and  put  her  arm  on  his, 
in  pointing  out  the  road.  The  English  customer  was 
not  without  his  reflections  then,  that  it  might  be  a good 
deed  to  seize  that  arm,  lift  it,  and  strike  under  it  sharp 
and  deep. 

But,  he  went  his  way,  and  was  soon  swallowed  up  in 
the  shadow  of  the  prison  wall.  At  the  appointed  hour, 
he  emerged  from  it  to  present  himself  in  Mr.  Lorry’s 
room  again,  where  he  found  the  old  gentleman  walking 
to  and  fro  in  restless  anxiety.  He  said  he  had  been 
with  Lucie  until  just  now,  and  had  only  left  for  a few 
minutes,  to  come  and  keep  his  appointment.  Her  father 
had  not  been  seen  since  he  quitted  the  banking-house 
towards  four  o’clock.  She  had  some  faint  hopes  that  his 
meditation  might  save  Charles,  but  they  were  very 
slight.  He  had  been  more  than  five  hours  gone  ; where 
could  he  be  ? 

Mr.  Lorry  waited  until  ten  ; but  Doctor  Manette  not 
returning,  and  he  being  unwilling  to  leave  Lucie  any 
longer,  it  was  arranged  that  lie  should  go  back  to  her, 
and  come  to  the  banking-house  again  at  midnight.  In 
the  meanwhile.  Carton  would  wait  alone  by  the  fire  for 
the  Doctor. 

He  waited  and  waited,  and  the  clock  struck  twelve ; 
but,  Doctor  Manette  did  not  come  back.  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
turned, and  found  no  tidings  of  him,  and  brought  none. 
Where  could  he  be  ? 

They  were  discussing  this  question,  and  were  almost 
building  up  some  weak  structure  of  hope  on  his  pro* 


304  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

longed  absence,  when  they  beard  bim  on  tbe  stairs.  The 
instant  be  entered  tbe  room,  it  was  plain  that  all  was 
lost. 

Whether  be  bad  really  been  to  any  one,  or  whether  be 
bad  been  all  that  time  traversing  tbe  streets,  was  never 
known.  As  be  stood  staring  at  them,  tbey  asked  him  no 
question,  for  bis  face  told  them  everything. 

“I  cannot  find  it,”  said  he,  “and  I must  have  it. 
Where  is  it?” 

His  bead  and  throat  were  bare,  and,  as  be  spoke  with 
a helpless  look  straying  all  around,  he  took  bis  coat  off, 
and  let  it  drop  on  the  floor. 

“Where  is  my  bench  ? I have  been  looking  every- 
where for  my  bench,  and  I can't  find  it.  What  have 
they  done  with  my  work  ? Time  presses  : I must  finish 
those  shoes.” 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  their  hearts  died  with- 
in them. 

“Come,  come  !”  said  he,  in  a whimpering  miserable 
way  ; “let  me  get  to  work.  Give  me  my  work.” 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  tore  his  hair,  and  beat  his 
feet  upon  the  ground,  like  a distracted  child. 

“Don't  torture  a poor  forlorn  wretch,”  he  implored 
them,  with  a dreadful  cry  ; “ but  give  me  my  work  ! 
What  is  to  become  of  us,  if  those  shoes  are  not  done  to- 
night ? ” 

Lost,  utterly  lost  ! 

It  was  so  clearly  beyond  hope,  to  reason  with  him,  or 
try  to  restore  him,  that — as  if  by  agreement — they  each 
put  a hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  soothed  him  to  sit 
down  before  the  fire,  with  a promise  that  he  should  have 
his  work  presently.  He  sank  into  the  chair,  and  brooded 
over  the  embers,  and  shed  tears.  As  if  all  that  had  hap- 
pened since  the  garret  time  were  a momentary  fancy,  or 
a dream,  Mr.  Lorry  saw  him  shrink  into  the  exact  figure 
that  Defarge  had  had  in  keeping. 

Affected  and  impressed  with  terror  as  they  both  were, 
by  this  spectacle  of  ruin,  it  was  not  a time  to  yield  to 
such  emotions.  His  lonely  daughter,  bereft  of  her  final 
hope  and  reliance,  appealed  to  them  both,  too  strongly. 
Again,  as  if  by  agreement,  they  looked  at  one  another 
with  one  meaning  in  their  faces.  Carton  was  the  first  to 
speak 

“ The  last  chance  is  gone  : it  was  not  much.  Yes  ; he 
had  better  be  taken  to  her.  But,  before  you  go,  will 
you,  for  a moment,  steadily  attend  to  me  ? Don’t  ask 
me  why  I make  the  stipulations  I am  going  to  make,  and 
exact  the  promise  I am  going  to  exact ; I have  a reason 
— a good  one.” 

“I  do,  not  doubt  it,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry.  “Say 


HIS  HEAD  AND  THROAT  WERE  BARE,  AND  HE  TOOK  HIS  COAT  OFF,  AND  LET  IT  DROP  ON  THE  FLOOR. 

—A  Tale  of  Two  Cities-  Vol.  Eleven,  page  305. 


306 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  figure  in  the  chair  between  them,  was  all  the  time 
monotonously  rocking  itself  to  and  fro,  and  moaning. 
They  spoke  in  such  a tone  as  they  would  have  used  if 
they  had  been  watching  by  a sick-bed  in  the  night. 

Carton  stooped  to  pick  up  the  coat,  which  lay  almost 
entangling  his  feet.  As  he  did  so,  a small  case  in  which 
the  Doctor  was  accustomed  to  carry  the  list  of  his  day’s 
duties,  fell  lightly  on  the  floor.  Carton  took  it  up,  and 
there  was  a folded  paper  in  it.  “We  should  look  at 
this  ? ” he  said.  Mr.  Lorry  nodded  his  consent.  He 
opened  it,  and  exclaimed,  “ Thank  God  ! ” 

“ What  is  it  ? ” asked  Mr.  Lorry,  eagerly. 

“ A moment ! Let  me  speak  of  it  in  its  place.  First,” 
he  put  his  hand  in  his  coat,  and  took  another  paper  from 
it,  “ that  is  the  certificate  which  enables  me  to  pass  out 
of  this  city.  Look  at  it.  You  see — Sydney  Carton,  an 
Englishman  ?” 

Mr.  Lorry  held  it  open  in  his  hand,  gazing  in  his  ear- 
nest face. 

“ Keep  it  for  me  until  to-morrow.  I shall  see  him  to- 
morrow, you  remember,  and  I had  better  not  take  it  into 
the  prison.” 

■ ‘ Why  not?” 

“ I don’t  know  : I prefer  not  to  do  so.  Now,  take  this 
paper  that  Doctor  Manette  has  carried  about  him.  It  is 
a similar  certificate,  enabling  him  and  his  daughter  and 
her  child,  at  any  time,  to  pass  the  Barrier  and  the  fron- 
tier ? You  see  ? ” 

‘‘Yes  ! ” 

“ Perhaps  he  obtained  it  as  his  last  and  utmost  precau- 
tion against  evil,  yesterday.  When  is  it  dated  ? But  no 
tnatter  ; don’t  stay  to  look  ; put  it  up  carefully  with 
mine  and  your  own.  Now,  observe  ! I never  doubted 
until  within  this  hour  or  two,  that  he  had,  or  could  have, 
such  a paper.  It  is  good,  until  recalled.  But  it  may  be 
soon  recalled,  and,  I have  reason  to  think,  will  be.” 

‘‘  They  are  not  in  danger  ? ” 

“ They  are  in  great  danger.  They  are  in  danger  of 
denunciation  by  Madame  Defarge.  I know  it  from  her 
own  lips.  I have  overheard  words  of  that  woman’s,  to- 
night, which  have  presented  their  danger  to  me  in  strong 
colours.  I have  lost  no  time,  and  since  then,  I have  seen 
the  spy.  He  confirms  me.  He  knows  that  a wood-sawyer, 
living  by  the  prison  wall,  is  under  the  control  of  the 
Defarges,  and  has  been  rehearsed  by  Madame  Defarge, 
as  to  his  having  seen  Her  ” — he  never  mentioned  Lucie’s 
name — making  signs  and  signals  to  prisoners.  It  is 
easy  to  foresee  that  the  pretence  will  be  the  common  one, 
a prison  plot,  and  that  it  will  involve  her  life — and  per- 
haps her  child’s — and  perhaps  her  father’s — for  both  have 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


307 


been  seen  witb  her  at  that  place.  Don’t  look  so  horrified. 
You  will  save  them  all.” 

“Heaven  grant  I may.  Carton  ! But  how?” 

“ I am  going  ’to  tell  you  how.  It  will  depend  on  you, 
and  it  could  depend  on  no  better  man.  This  new  denun- 
ciation will  certainly  not  take  place  until  after  to-mor- 
row ; probably  not  until  two  or  three  days  afterwards ; 
more  probably  a week  afterwards.  You  know  it  is  a cap- 
ital crime,  to  mourn  for,  or  sympathise  with,  a victim  of 
the  Guillotine.  She  and  her  father  would  unquestiona- 
bly be  guilty  of  this  crime,  and  this  woman  (the  invet- 
eracy of  whose  pursuit  cannot  be  described)  would  wait 
to  add  that  strength  to  her  case,  and  make  herself  doubly 
sure.  You  follow  me  ? ” 

“ So  attentively,  and  with  so  much  confidence  in  wha^ 
you  say,  that  for  the  moment  I lose  sight,”  touching  thq 
back  of  the  Doctor’s  chair,  “ even  of  this  distress.  ” 

“ You  have  money,  and  can  buy  the  means  of  travel r 
ling  to  the  sea- coast  as  quickly  as  the  journey  can  be 
inade.  Your  preparations  have  been  completed  for  some 
days,  to  return  to  England.  Early  to-morrow,  have  your 
horses  ready,  so  that  they  may  be  in  starting  trim  at  twq 
o’clock  in  the  afternoon.” 

“ It  shall  be  done  ! ” 

His  manner  was  so  fervent  and  inspiring,  that  Mr.  Lor- 
ry caught  the  flame,  and  was  as  quick  as  youth. 

“ You  are  a noble  heart.  Did  I say  we  could  depend 
upon  no  better  man  ? Tell  her,  to-night,  what  you  know 
of  her  danger  as  involving  her  child  and  her  father. 
Dwell  upon  that,  for  she  would  lay  her  own  fair  head 
beside  her  husband’s,  cheerfully.”  He  faltered  for  an 
instant  ; then  went  .on  as  before.  “For  the  sake  of  her 
child  and  her  father,  press  upon  her  the  necessity  of  leav- 
ing Paris,  with  them  and  you,  at  that  hour.  Tell  her 
that  it  was  her  husband’s  last  arrangement.  Tell  her- 
that  more  depends  upon  it  than  she  dare  believe,  or  hope. 
You  think  her  father,  even  in  tills  sad  state,  will  submit 
himself  to  her  : do  you  not  ?” 

“ I am  sure  of  it.” 

“I  thought  so.  Quietly  and  steadily,  have  all  these 
arrangements  been  made  in  the  court-yard  here,  even  to 
the  taking  of  your  own  seat  in  the  carriage.  The  mo- 
ment I come  to  you,  take  me  in,  and  drive  away.” 

“ I understand  that  I wait  for  you,  under  all  circum- 
stances ?” 

“ You  have  my  certificate  in  your  hand  with  the  rest, 
you  know,  and  will  Teserve  my  place.  Wait  for  noth- 
ing but  to  have  my  place  occupied,  and  then  for  Eng- 
land ! ” 

“ Why,  then,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  grasping  his  eager  but 
so  firm  and  steady  hand,  “ it  does  not  all  depend  on  one 


308 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


old  man,  but  I shall  have  a young  and  ardent  man  at  my 
side.” 

“ By  the  help  of  Heaven  you  shall  ! Promise  me  sol- 
emnly, that  nothing  will  influence  you  to  alter  the  course 
03?.  which  we  now  stand  pledged  to  one  another.” 

’Nothing,  Carton.” 

Remember  these  words  to-morrow  : change  the 
course,  or  delay  in  it — for  any  reason — and  no  life  can 
possibly  be  saved,  and  many  lives  must  inevitably  be  sac- 
rificed.” 

“ I will  remember  them.  I hope  to  do  my  part  faith- 
fully.” 

“ And  I hope  to  do  mine.  Now,  good-bye  \ ” 

Though  he  said  it  with  a grave  smile  of  earnestness, 
and  though  he  even  put  the  old  man’s  hand  to  his  lips, 
he  did  not  part  from  him  then.  He  helped  him  so  far  to 
arouse  the  rocking  figure  before  the  dying  embers,  as  to 
get  a cloak  and  hat  put  upon  it,  and  to  tempt  it  forth  to 
find  where  the  bench  and  work  were  hidden  that  it  still 
moaningly  besought  to  have.  He  walked  on  the  other 
side  of  it  and  protected  it  to  the  court-yard  of  the  house 
where  the  afflicted  heart — so  happy  in  the  memorable 
time  when  he  had  revealed  his  own  desolate  heart  to  it 
— outwatched  the  awful  night.  He  entered  the  court- 
yard and  remained  there  for  a few  moments  alone,  look, 
ing  up  at  the  light  in  the  window  of  her  room.  Before 
he  went  away,  he  breathed  a blessing  towards  it,  and  a 
Farewell. 

CHAPTER  XHX. 

Fifty-two. 

In  the  black  prison  of  the  Conciergerie,  the  doomed  of 
the  day  awaited  their  fate.  They  were  in  number  as 
the  weeks  of  the  year.  Fifty -two  were  to  roll  that  af- 
ternoon on  the  life-tide  of  the  city  to  the  boundless  ever- 
lasting sea.  Before  their  cells  were  quit  of  them,  new 
occupants  were  appointed  ; before  their  blood  ran  into 
the  blood  spilled  yesterday,  the  blood  that  was  to  mingle 
With  theirs  to-morrow  was  already  set  apart. 

Two  score  and  twelve  were  told  off.  From  the  farmer- 
general  of  seventy,  whose  riches  could  not  buy  his  life, 
to  the  seamstress  of  twenty,  whose  poverty  and  obscurity 
could  not  save  her.  Physical  diseases  engendered  in  the 
vices  and  neglects  of  men,  will  seize  on  victims  of  all  de- 
grees ; and  the  frightful  moral  disorder,  born  of  un- 
speakable suffering,  intolerable  oppression,  and  heartless 
indifference,  smote  equally  without  distinction. 

Charles  Darnay,  alone  in  a cell,  had  sustained  himself 
with  no  flattering  delusion  since  he  came  to  it  from  the 
Tribunal.  In  every  line  of  the  narrative  he  had  heard. 


A TALE  O?  TWO  CITIES. 


309 


he  had  heard  his  condemnation.  He  had  fully  compre- 
hended that  no  personal  influence  could  possibly  save 
him,  that  he  was  virtually  sentenced  by  the  millions, 
and  that  units  could  avail  him  nothing. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  easy,  with  the  face  of  his  be- 
loved wife  fresh  before  him,  to  compose  his  mind  to 
what  it  must  bear.  His  hold  on  life  was  strong,  and  it 
was  very,  very  hard  to  loosen  ; by  gradual  efforts  and 
degrees  unclosed  a little  here,  it  clenched  the  tighter 
there  ; and  when  he  brought  his  strength  to  bear  on 
that  hand  and  it  yielded,  this  was  closed  again.  Inhere 
was  a hurry,  too,  in  all  his  thoughts,  a turbulent  and 
heated  working  of  his  heart,  that  contended  against  res- 
ignation. If,  for  a moment,  he  did  feel  resigned,  then 
his  wife  and  child  who  had  to  live  after  him,  seemed  to 
protest  and  to  make  it  a selfish  thing. 

But,  all  this  was  at  first.  Before  long,  the  considera- 
tion that  there  was  no  disgrace  in  the  fate  he  must  meet, 
and  that  numbers  went  the  same  road  wrongfully,  and 
trod  it  firmly,  every  day,  sprang  up  to  stimulate  him. 
Next  followed  the  thought  that  much  of  the  future 

Eeace  of  mind  enjoyable  by  the  dear  ones,  depended  on 
is  quiet  fortitude.  So,  by  degrees  he  calmed  into  the 
better  state,  when  he  could  raise  his  thoughts  much 
higher,  and  draw  comfort  down. 

Before  it  had  set  in  dark  on  the  night  of  his  condem- 
nation, he  had -travelled  thus  far  on  his  last  way.  Being 
allowed  to  purchase  the  means,  of  writing,  and  a light, 
he  sat  down  to  write  until  such  time  as  the  prison  lamps 
should  be  extinguished. 

He  wrote  a long  letter  to  Lucie,  showing  her  that  he 
had  known  nothing  of  her  father’s  imprisonment  until 
he  had  heard  of  it  from  herself,  and  that  he  had  been  as 
ignorant  as  she  of  his  father’s  and  uncle’s  responsibility 
for  tha  ; misery,  until  the  paper  had  been  read.  He  had 
already  explained  to  her  that  his  concealment  from  her- 
self of  the  name  he  had  relinquished,  was  the  one  con- 
dition—fully  intelligible  now- — that  her  father  had  at- 
tached to  their  betrothal,  and  was  the  one  promise  he 
had  still  exacted  on  the  morning  of  their  marriage.  He 
entreated  her,  for  her  father’s  sake,  never  to  seek  to 
know  whether  her  father  had  become  oblivious  of  the 
existence  of  the  paper,  or  had  had  it  recalled  to  him  (for 
the  moment,  or  for  good,  by  the  story  of  the  Tower,  on 
that  old  Sunday  under  the  dear  plane-tree  in  the  garden. 
If  he  had  preserved  any  definite  remembrance  of  it, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  supposed  it  de- 
stroyed with  the  Bastille,  when  he  had  found  no  mention 
of  it  among  the  relics  of  prisoners  which  the  populace 
had  discovered  there,  and  which  had  been  described  to 
all  the  world.  He  besought  her — though  he  added  that 


310 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


he  knew  it  was  needless — to  console  her  father,  by  im- 
pressing him  through  every  tender  means  she  could 
think  of,  with  the  truth  that  he  had  done  nothing  for 
which  he  could  justly  reproach  himself,  but  had  uni- 
formly forgotten  himself  for  their  joint  sakes.  Next  to 
her  preservation  of  his  own  last  grateful  love  and  bless- 
ing, and  her  overcoming  of  her  sorrow,  to  devote  herself 
to  their  dear  child,  he  adjured  her,  as  they  would  meet 
in  Heaven,  to  comfort  her  father. 

To  her  father  himself,  he  wrote  in  the  same  strain ; 
but,  he  told  her  father  that  he  expressly  confided  hi? 
wife  and  child  to  his  care.  And  he  told  him  this,  very 
strongly,  with  the  hope  of  rousing  him  from  any  de- 
spondency or  dangerous  retrospect  towards  which  he  fore- 
saw he  might  be  tending. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  he  commended  them  all,  and  explained 
his  worldly  affairs.  That  done,  with  many  added  sen- 
tences of  grateful  friendship  and  warm  attachment,  all 
was  done.  He  never  thought  of  Carton.  His  mind  was 
so  full  of  the  others,  that  he  never  once  thought  of  him. 

He  had  time  to  finish  these  letters  before  the  lights 
were  put  out.  When  he  lay  down  on  his  straw  bed,  he 
thought  he  had  done  with  this  world. 

But,  it  beckoned  him  back  in  his  sleep,  and  showed 
itself  in  shining  forms.  Free  and  happy,  back  in  the 
old  house  in  Soho  (though  it  had  nothing  in  it  like  the 
real  house),  unaccountably  released  and  light  of  heart, 
he  was  with  Lucie  again,  and  she  told  him  it  was  all  a 
dream,  and  he  had  never  gone  away.  A pause  of  for- 
getfulness, and  then  he  had  even  suffered,  and  had  come 
back  to  her,  dead  and  at  peace,  and  yet  there  was  no 
difference  in  him.  Another  pause  of  oblivion,  and  he 
awoke  in  the  sombre  morning,  unconscious  where  he 
was  or  what  had  happened,  until  it  flashed  upon  his 
mind,  “this  is  the  day  of  my  death  ! 99 

Thus,  had  he  come  through  the  hours,  to  the  day 
when  the  fifty-two  heads  were  to  fall.  And  now,  while 
he  was  composed,  and  hoped  that  he  could  meet  the  end 
with  quiet  heroism,  a new  action  began  in  his  waking 
thoughts,  which  was  very  difficult  to  master. 

He  had  never  seen  the  instrument  that  was  to  termi- 
nate his  life.  How  high  it  was  from  the  ground,  how 
many  steps  it  had,  where  he  would  be  stood,  how  he 
would  be  touched,  whether  the  touching  hands  would 
be  dyed  red,  which  way  his  face  would  be  turned, 
whether  he  would  be  the  first,  or  might  be  the  last  < 
these  and  many  similar  questions,  in  no  wise  directed  by 
his  will,  obtruded  themselves  over  and  over  again, 
countless  times.  Neither  were  they  connected  with 
fear  : he  was  conscious  of  no  fear.  Rather,  they  origi- 
nated in  a strange  besetting  desire  to  know  what  to  do 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


311 


when  the  time  came  ; a desire  gigantically  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  few  swift  moments  to  which  it  referred  ; a 
wondering  that  was  more  like  the  wondering  of  some 
other  spirit  within  his,  than  his  own. 

Thp  hours  went  on  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  and  the 
(locks  struck  the  numbers  he  would  never  hear  again. 
Nine  gone  for  ever,  ten  gone  for  ever,  eleven  gone  for 
ever,  twelve  coming -on  to  pass  away.  After  a hard 
contest  with  that  eccentric  action  of  thought  which  had 
last  perplexed  him,  he  had  got  the  better  of  it.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  softly  repeating  their  names  to 
himself.  The  worst  of  the  strife  was  over.  He  could 
walk  up  and  down,  free  from  distracting  fancies,  praying 
for  himself  and  for  them. 

Twelve  gone  for  ever. 

He  had  been  apprised  that  the  final  hour  was  Three, 
and  he  knew  he  would  be  summoned  some  time  earlier, 
inasmuch  as  the  tumbrils  jolted  heavily  and  slowly 
through  the  streets.  Therefore,  he  resolved  to  keep 
Two  before  his  mind,  as  the  hour,  and  so  to  strengthen 
himself  in  the  interval  that  he  might  be  able,  , after  that 
time,  to  strengthen  others. 

Walking  regularly  to  and  fro  with  his  arms  folded  oh 
his  breast,  a very  different  man  from  the  prisoner  who 
had  walked  to  and  fro  at  La  Force,  he  heard  One  struck 
away  from  him,  without  surprise.  The  hour  had  meas- 
ured like  most  other  hours.  Devoutly  thankful  to 
Heaven  for  his  recovered  self-possession,  he  thought, 
“ There  is  but  another  now,”  and  turned  to  walk  again. 

Footsteps  in  the  stone  passage,  outside  the  door.  He 
stopped. 

The  key  was  put  in  the  lock,  and  turned.  Before  the 
door  was  opened,  or  as  it  opened,  a man  said  in  a low 
voice,  in  English  : “He  has  never  seen  me  here  ; I have 
kept  out  of  his  way.  Go  you  in  alone  ; I wait  near* 
Lose  no  time  ! 99 

The  door  was  quickly  opened  and  closed,  and  there 
stood  before  him,  face  to  face,  quiet,  intent  upon  him, 
with  the  light  of  a smile  on  his  features  and  a cautionary 
linger  on  his  lip,  Sydney  Carton. 

There  was  something  so  bright  and  remarkable  in  his 
look,  that,  for  the  first  moment,  the  prisoner  misdoubted 
him  to  be  an  apparition  of  his  own  imagining.  But, 
he  spoke,  and  it  was  his  voice  ; he  took  the  prisoner’s 
hand,  and  it  was  his  real  grasp. 

“Of  all  the  people  upon  earth,  you  least  expected  to 
see  me  ? 99  he  said. 

“ I could  not  believe  it  to  be  you.  I can  scarcely 
believe  it  now.  You  are  not  ” — the  apprehension  came 
suddenly  into  his  mind — “ a prisoner  ?” 

“No.  I am  accidentally  possessed  of  a power  over  one 


313 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


o>f  the  keepers  here,  and  in  virtue  of  it  I stand  before 
fou.  I come  from  her — your  wife,  dear  Darnay/" 

The  prisoner  wrung*  his  hand. 

“ I bring  you  a request  from  her.” 

“ What  is  it?” 

“ A most  earnest,  pressing*,  and  emphatic  entfeaty, 
addressed  to  you  in  the  most  pathetic  tones  of  the  voice 
so  dear  to  you,  that  you  well  remember.” 

The  prisoner  turned  his  face  partly  aside. 

“ You  have  no  time  to  ask  me  why  I bring  it,  or  what 
It  means  ; I have  no  time  to  tell  you.  You  must  comply 
with  it — take  off  those  boots  you  wear,  and  draw  on 
these  of  mine.” 

There  was  a chair  against  the  wall  of  the  cell,  behind 
the  prisoner.  Carton,  pressing  forward,  had  already, 
with  the  speed  of  lightning,  got  him  down  into  it,  and 
stood  over  him  barefoot. 

“ Draw  on  these  boots  of  mine.  Put  your  hands  to 
them  ; put  your  will  to  them.  Quick  ! ” 

“Carton,  there  is  no  escaping  from  this  place  ; it  never 
can  be  done.  You  will  only  die  with  me.  It  is  madness.” 

“ It  would  be  madness  if  I asked  you  to  escape  ; but 
do  I ? When  I ask  you  to  pass  out  at  that  door,  tell  me 
it  is  madness  and  remain  here.  Change  that  cravat  for 
this  of  mine,  that  coat  for  this  of  mine.  While  you  dc 
it,  let  me  take  this  ribbon  from  your  hair,  and  shake 
out  your  hair  like  this  of  mine  ! ” 

With  wonderful  quickness,  and  with  a strength  both 
of  will  and  action,  that  appeared  quite  supernatural,  he 
forced  all  these  changes  upon  him.  The  prisoner  was 
like  a young  child  in  his  hands. 

4 * Carton!  Dear  Carton  I It  is  madness.  It  cannot 
be  accomplished,  it  never  can  be  done,  it  has  been  at- 
tempted, and  has  always  failed.  I implore  you  not  to 
add  your  death  to  the  bitterness  of  mine.” 

“Do  I ask  you,  my  dear  Darnay,  to  pass  the  coor? 
When  I ask  that,  refuse.  There  are  pen  and  ink  and 
paper  on  this  table.  Is  your  hand  steady  enough  to 
write  ? ” 

“ It  was,  when  you  came  in.” 

“ Steady  it  again,  and  write  what  I shall  dictate. 
Quick,  friend,  quick  I ” 

Pressing  his  hand  to  his  bewildered  head,  Darnay  sat 
down  at  the  table.  Carton,  with  his  right  hand  in  his 
breast,  stood  close  beside  him. 

“ Write  exactly  as  I speak.” 

“ To  whom  do  I address  it?” 

“ To  no  one.”  Carton  still  had  his  hand  in  his  breast. 

“ Do  I date  it  ?” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


313 


The  prisoner  looked,  up,  at  each  question.  Carton, 
standing  over  him  with  his  hand  in  his  breast,  looked 
down. 

“ ‘ If  you  remember,’”  said  Carton,  dictating,  “ "the 
words  that  passed  between  us,  long  ago,  you  will  readily 
comprehend  this  when  you  see  it.  You  do  remember 
them,  I know.  It  is  not  in  your  nature  to  forget  them/  ” 

He  was  drawing  his  hand  from  his  breast  ; the  pris- 
oner chancing  to  look  up  in  his  hurried  wonder  as  he 
wrote,  the  hand  stopped,  closing  upon  something. 

“ Have  you  written  "forget  them?”’  Carton  aaked. 

I have*  Is  that  a weapon  in  your  hand  ? ” 

“ No  ; I am  not  armed.” 

4 What  is  it  in  your  hand  ? ” 

“You  shall  know  directly.  Write  on  ; there  are  but 
a few  words  more.”  He  dictated  again.  “ ‘ I am  thank- 
ful that  the  time  has  come,  when  I can  prove  them. 
That  I do  so,  is  no  subject  for  regret  or  grief/”  As  he 
Said  these  words  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  writer,  his 
hand  slowly  and  softly  moved  down  close  to  the  writer’s 
face. 

The  pen  dropped  from  Darnay’s  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  he  looked  about  him  vacantly. 

“ What  vapour  is  that  ? ” he  asked. 

“ Vapour?  ” 

“ Something  that  crossed  me?” 

“ I am  conscious  of  nothing  ; there  can  be  nothing 
here.  Take  up  the  pen  and  finish.  Hurry,  hurry  !” 

As  if  his  memory  were  impaired,  or  his  faculties  dis- 
ordered, the  prisoner  made  an  effort  to  rally  his  atten- 
tion. As  he  looked  at  Carton  with  clouded  eyes  and 
with  an  altered  manner  of  breathing,  Carton — his  hand 
again  in  his  breast— looked  steadily  at  him. 

“ Hurry,  hurry  I” 

The  prisoner  bent  over  the  paper,  once  more. 

“‘If  it  had  been  otherwise  Carton’s  hand  was 
again  watchfully  and  softly  stealing  down  ; “ ‘ I never 
should  have  used  the  longer  opportunity.  If  it  had  been 
otherwise  ; ’ ” the  hand  was  at  the  prisoner’s  face  ; “ ‘ I 
should  but  have  had  so  much  the  more  to  answer  for. 
If  it  had  been  otherwise—’  ” Carton  looked  at  the  pen, 
and  saw  that  it  was  trailing  off  into  unintelligible  signs. 

Carton’s  hand  moved  back  to  his  breast  no  more.  The 
prisoner  sprang  up,  with  a reproachful  look,  but  Car- 
ton’s hand  was  close  and  firm  at  his  nostrils,  and  Carton’s 
left  arm  caught  him  round  the  waist.  For  a few  seconds 
he  faintly  struggled  with  the  man  who  had  come  to  lay 
down  his  life  for  him  ; but,  within  a minute  or  so,  he 
was  stretched  insensible  on  the  ground. 

Quickly,  but  with  hands  as  true  to  the  purpose  as  his 
heart  was,  Carton  dressed  himself  the  clothes  the  pris- 
-N  VOL.  11 


814 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


oner  had  laid  aside,  combed  back  bis  hair,  and  tied  it 
with  the  ribbon  the  prisoner  had  worn.  Then,  he  softly 
called  “ Enter  there  ! Come  in  ! ” and  the  spy  presented 
himself. 

“ You  see  ?”  said  Carton,  looking  up,  as  he  kneeled 
on  one  knee  beside  the  insensible  figure,  putting  th© 
paper  in  the  breast : “ Is  your  hazard  very  great  ? ” 

“Mr.  Carton,”  the  spy  answered,  with  a timid  snap  of 
his  fingers,  “ my  hazard  is  not  that , in  the  thickr^s  of 
business  here,  if  you  are  true  to  the  whole  of  your  bar- 
gain.” V 

“ Don’t  fear  me.  I will  be  true  to  the  death.” 

“'You  must  be,  Mr.  Carton,  if  the  tale  of  fifty -two  is 
to  be  right.  Being  made  right  by  you  in  that  dress,  I 
shall  have  no  fear.”  . 

4 ‘ Have  no  fear  I I shall  soon  be  out  of  the  way  of 
harming  you,  and  the  rest  will  soon  be  far  from  here, 
please  God  ! Now,  get  assistance  and  take  me  to  the 
coach.” 

“ You  ? ” said  the  spy,  nervously. 

“'  Him,  man,  with  whom  I have  exchanged.  You  go 
out  at  the  gate  by  which  you  brought  me  in  ? ” 

“ Of  course.” 

“ I was  weak  and  faint  when  you  brought  me  in,  and  I 
am  fainter  now  you  take  me  out.  The  parting  interview 
has  overpowered  me.  Such  a thing  has  happened  here, 
often,  and  too  often.  Your  life  is  in  your  own  hands. 
Quick  ! Call  assistance  ! ” 

“You  swear  not  to  betray  me  ? ” said  the  trembling  spy, 
as  he  paused  for  a last  moment. 

“ Man,  man  ! ” returned  Carton,  stamping  his  foot ; 
“ have  I sworn  by  no  solemn  vow  already,  to  go  through 
with  this,  that  you  waste  the  precious  moments  now  ? 
Take  him  yourself  to  the  court-yard  you  know  of,  place 
him  yourself  in  the  carriage,  show  him  yourself  to  Mr. 
Lorry,  tell  him  yourself  to  give  him  no  restorative  but 
air,  and  to  remember  my  Twords  of  last  night,  and  his 
promise  of  last  night,  and  drive  away  ! ” 

The  spy  withdrew,  and  Carton  seated  himself  at  the 
table,  resting  his  forehead  on  his  hands.  The  spy  re- 
turned immediately,  w th  two  men. 

“ How,  then  ? ” said  one  of  them,  contemplating  the 
fallen  figure.  “ So  afflicted  to  find  that  his  friend  has 
drawn  a prize  in  the  lottery  of  Sainte  Guillotine  ? ” 

“ A good  patriot,”  said  the  other,  “ could  hardly  have 
been  more  afflicted  if  the  Aristocrat  had  drawn  a 
blank.” 

They  raised  the  unconscious  figure,  placed  it  on  a 
litter  they  had  brought  to  the  door,  and  bent  to  carry  it 
away. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


315 


“Tlie  time  is  short,  Evremonde,”  said  the  spy,  m & 
warning  voice. 

(s  I know  it  well,”  answered  Carton.  “ Be  careful  of 
my  friend,  I untreat  you,  and  leave  me.” 

“ Come , then,  my  children,”  said  Barsad.  “Lift  him, 
and  come  away  ! ” 

The  door  closed,  and  Carton  was  left  alone.  Straining 
his  powers  of  listening  to  the  utmost,  he  listened  for  any 
sound  that  might  denote  suspicion  or  alarm.  There  was 
none.  Keys  turned,  doors  clashed,  footsteps  passed 
through  long  distant  passages  : no  cry  was  raised,  or 
hurry  made, that  seemed  unusual.  Breathing  more  freely 
isi  a little  while,  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  listened 
again  until  the  clock  struck  Two. 

Sounds  that  he  was  not  afraid  of,  for  he  divined  their 
meaning,  then  began  to  be  audible.  Several  doors  were 
opened  in  succession,  and  finally  his  own.  A gaoler, 
with  a list  in  his  hand,  looked  in,  merely  saying,  “ Fol- 
low me,  Evremonde  ! ” and  he  followed  into  a large  dark 
room,  at  a distance.  It  was  a dark  winter  day,  and  what 
with  the  shadows  within,  and  what  with  the  shadows 
without,  he  could  but  dimly  discern  the  others  who 
were  brought  there  to  have  their  arms  bound.  Some 
were  standing ; some  seated.  Some  were  lamenting, 
and  in  restless  motion  ; but.  these  were  few.  The 
great  majority  were  silent  and  still,  looking  fixedly  at 
the  ground. 

As  he  stood  by  the  wall  in  a dim  corner,  while  some 
of  the  fifty-two  were  brought  in  after  him,  one  man 
stopped  in  passing,  to  embrace  him,  as  having  a know- 
ledge of  him.  It  thrilled  him  with  a great  dread  of  dis  - 
covery ; but  the  man  went  on.  A very  few  moments 
after  that,  a young  woman,  with  a slight  girlish  form,  a 
sweet  spare  face  in  which  there  was  no  vestige  of  colour, 
and  large  widely  opened  patient  eyes,  rose  from  the  seat 
where  he  had  observed  her  sitting,  and  came  to  speak  to 
him 

“ CiPzen  Evremonde,”  she  said,  touching  him  with 
her  cold  hand.  “ I am  a poor  little  seamstress,  who  was 
with  you  in  La  Force.” 

He  murmured  for  answer  : “ True.  I forget  what  you 
were  accused  of  ? ” 

“ Plots.  Though  the  just  Heaven  knows  I am  inno- 
cent of  any.  Is  it  likely  ? Who  would  think  of  plotting 
with  a poor  little  weak  creature  like  me?” 

The  forlorn  smile  with  which  she  said  it,  so  touched 
him  that  tears  started  from  his  eyes. 

e*  I am  not  afraid  to  die,  Citizen  Evremonde,  but  I 
have  done  nothing.  I am  not  unwilling  to  die,  if  the 
Republic  which  is  to  do  so  much  good  to  us  poor,  will 
profit  by  my  death  ; but  I do  not  know  how  that  can 


316 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


be,  Citizen  Evremonde.  Such  a poor  weak  little  crea- 
ture ! ” 

As  tbe  last  tiling  on  earth  that  his  heart  was  to  warm 
and  soften  to,  it  warmed  and  softened  to  this  pitiable 
girl. 

“ I heard  you  were  released,  Citizen  Evremonde.  1 
hoped  it  was  true  ? ” 

“It  was.  But,  I was  again  taken  and  condemned.” 

“If  I may  ride  with  you,  Citizen  Evremonde,  will  you 
let  me  hold  your  hand  ? I am  not  afraid,  but  I am  little 
and  weak,  and  it  will  give  me  more  courage.” 

As  the  patient  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face,  he  saw  a 
sudden  doubt  in  them,and  then  astonishment.  He  pressed 
the  work  worn,  hunger- worn,  young  fingers,  and  touched 
his  lips. 

“Are  you  dying  for  him  ? ” she  whispered. 

“ And  his  wife  and  child.  Hush  l Yes.” 

“ Oh  you  will  let  me  hold  your  brave  hand,  stranger  ? ” 

“ Mush  ! Yes,  my  poor  sister  ; to  the  last.” 

The  same  shadows  that  are  falling  on  the  prison,  are 
falling,  in  the  same  hour  of  that  early  afternoon,  on  the 
Barrier  with  the  crowd  about  it,  when  a coach  going  out 
of  Paris  drives  up  to  be  examined. 

“ Who  goes  here  ? Whom  have  we  within  ? Pa- 
pers ! ” 

The  papers  are  handed  out  and  read. 

“ Alexandre  Manette.  Physician.  French.  Which 
is  he  ? ” 

This  is  he  ; this  helpless,  inarticulately  murmuring, 
wandering  old  man  pointed  out. 

“Apparently  the  Citizen-Doctor  is  not  in  his  right 
mind  ? The  Revolution-fever  will  have  been  too  much 

Mm  ’ 

Greatly  too  much  for  him. 

“ Hah  ! Many  suffer  with  it.  Lucie.  His  daught$5$ 
French.  Which  is  she?” 

This  is  she. 

“Apparently  it  must  be.  Lucie,  the  wife  of  Evrt* 
monde  ; is  it  not  ? ” 

It  is. 

“ Hah  ! Evremonde  has  an  assignation  elsewhere, 
Lucie,  her  child.  English.  This  is  she?” 

She  and  no  other. 

“ Kiss  me,  child  of  Evremonde.  Now,  thou  hast 
kissed  a good  Republican  ; something  new  in  thy  family? 
remember  it ! Sydney  Carton.  Advocate.  English 
Which  is  he  ? ” 

He  lies  here,  in  this  corner  of  the  carriage.  He,  too, 
is  pointed  out 

“ Apparently  the  English  advocate  is  in  a swoon  ?” 

It  is  honed  he  will  recover  in  the  fresher  air.  It  ia 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


317 


represented  that  lie  is  not  in  strong  health,  and  has  sep- 
arated sadly  from  a friend  who  is  under  the  displeasure 
of  the  Republic. 

“ Is  that  all?  It  is  not  a great  deal,  that  ! Many  are 
under  the  displeasure  of  the  Republic,  and  must  look 
out  at  the  little  window.  Jarvis  Lorry.  Banker.  Eng 
lish.  Which  is  he  ? ” 

“l  am  he.  Necessarily,  being  the  last.” 

It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  replied  to  all  the  previous 
questions.  It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  alighted  and 
stands  with  his  hand  on  the  coach  door,  replying  to  a 
group  of  officials.  They  leisurely  walk  round  the  car- 
riage and  leisurely  mount  the  box,  to  look  at  what  little 
luggage  it  carries  on  the  roof  ; the  country-people  hang- 
ing about,  press  nearer  to  the  coach  doors  and  greedily 
stare  in  ; a little  child,  carried  by  its  mother,  has  its 
short  arm  held  out  for  it,  that  it  may  touch  the  wife  of 
an  aristocrat  who  has  gone  to  the  Guillotine. 

* 4 Behold  your  papers,  Jarvis  Lorry,  countersigned,’ 

“ One  can  depart,  citizen  ? ” 

“ One  can  depart.  Forward,  my  postilions  ! A good 
journey  ! ” 

“ I salute  you,  citizens. — And  the  first  danger  passed ! w 

These  are  again  the  words  of  Jarvis  Lorry,  as  he  clasps 
his  hands  and  looks  upward.  There  is  terror  in  the  car- 
riage, there  is  weeping,  there  is  the  heavy  breathing  of 
the  insensible  traveller. 

“ Are  we  not  going  too  slowly?  Can  they  not  be  in- 
duced to  go  faster  ?”  asks  Lucie,  clinging  to  the  old  man, 

“ It  would  seem  like  flight,  my  darling.  I must  not 
urge  them  too  much  ; it  would  rouse  suspicion.” 

“ Look  back,  look  back,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued  ! ” 

“ The  road  is  clear,  my  dearest.  So  far,  we  are  not 
pursued.  ” 

Houses  in  twos  and  threes  pass  by  us,  solitary  farms, 
ruinous  buildings,  dye-works,  tanneries  and  the  like,  open 
country,  avenues  of  leafless  trees.  The  hard  uneven 
pavement  is  under  us,  the  soft  deej)  mud  is  on  either 
side.  Sometimes,  we  strike  into  the  skirting  mud,  to 
avoid  the  stones  that  clatter  us  and  shake  us  ; sometimes, 
we  stick  in  ruts  and  sloughs  there.  The  agony  of  our 
impatience  is  then  so  great,  that  in  our  wild  alarm  and 
hurry  we  are  for  getting  out  and  running — hiding— do- 
ing anything  but  stopping. 

Out  of  the  open  country,  in  again  among  ruinous 
buildings,  solitary  farms,  dye-works  tanneries  and  the 
like,  cottages  in  twos  and  threes,  avenues  of  leafless 
trees.  Have  these  men  deceived  us,  and  taken  us  back 
by  another  road  ? Is  not  this  the  same  place  twice  over  ! 
Thank  Heaven  no.  A village.  Look  back,  look  back, 
and  see  if  we  are  pursued  ! Hush  ! the  posting-house. 


318 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Leisurely,  our  four  liorses  are  taken  out ; leisurely* 
the  coach  stands  in  the  little  street,  bereft  of  horses,  and 
with  no  likelihood  upon  it  of  ever  moving  again  ; leisure- 
ly, the  new  horses  come  into  visible  existence,  one  by 
one  ; leisurely,  the  new  postilions  follow,  sucking  and 
plaiting  the  lashes  of  their  whips  ; leisurely,  the  old  pos- 
tilions count  their  money,  make  wrong  additions,  and 
arrive  at  dissatisfied  results.  All  the  time,  our  over 
fraught  hearts  are  beating  at  a rate  that  would  far  out- 
strip the  fastest  gallop  of  the  fastest  horses  ever  foaled. 

At  length  the  new  postilions  are  in  their  saddles,  ar\d 
the  old  are  left  behind.  We  are  through  the  village,  up 
the  hill,  and  down  the  hill,  and  on  the  low  watery 
grounds.  Suddenly,  the  postilions  exchange  speech  with 
animated  gesticulation,  and  the  horses  are  pulled  up, 
almost  on  their  haunches.  We  are  pursued  ! 

“ Ho  ! Within  the  carriage  there.  Speak  then  ! ” 

“What  is  it?”  asks  Mr.  Lorry,  looking  out  at  win- 
dow. 

“ How  many  did  they  say  ? ” 

“ I do  not  understand  yon.” 

“ — At  the  last  post.  How  many  to  the  Guillotine  to- 
day ? ” 

“ Fifty-two.” 

“I  said  so!  A brave  number!  My  fellow- citizen 
here,  would  have  it  forty-two  ; ten  more  heads  are 
worth  having.  The  Guillotine  goes  handsomely.  I love 
it.  Hi  forward.  Whoop  ! ” 

The  night  comes  on  dark.  He  moves  more  ; he  is  be- 
ginning to  revive,  and  to  speak  intelligibly  ; be  thinks 
they  are  still  together  ; he  asks  him,  by  his  name,  what 
he  has  in  his  hand.  O pity  us,  kind  Heaven  and  help 
us  ! Look  out,  look  out,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued. 

The  wind  is  rushing  after  us,  and  the  clouds  are  fly- 
ing after  us,  and  the  moon  is  plunging  after  us,  and  the 
whole  wild  night  is  in  pursuit  of  us  ; but,  so  far,  we  are 
pursued  by  nothing  else. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  Knitting  Berne, 

In  that  same  juncture  of  time  when  the  Fifty- Two 
awaited  their  fate,  Madame  Defarge  held  darkly  omi- 
nous council  with  The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  of 
the  Revolutionary  Jury.  Not  in  the  wine-shop  did 
Madame  Defarge  confer  with  these  ministers,  but  in  the 
shed  of  the  wood -sawyer,  erst  a mender  of  roads.  The 
sawyer  himself  did  not  participate  in  the  conference,  but 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


319 


abided  at  a little  distance,  like  an  outer  satellite  who  was 
not  to  speak  until  required,  or  to  offer  an  opinion  until 
invited. 

“ But  our  Defarge,”  said  Jacques  Three,  “is  un- 
doubtedly a good  Republican  ? Eh  ? " 

“ There  is  no  better/'  the  voluble  Vengeance  pro- 
tested  in  her  shrill  notes,  “ in  France." 

“ Peace,  little  Vengeance,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  lay- 
ing her  hand  with  a slight  frown  on  her  lieutenant's 
lips,  “ hear  me  speak.  My  husband,  fellow- citizen,  is  a 
good  Republican  and  a bold  man  ; he  has  deserved  well 
of  the  Republic,  and  possesses  its  confidence.  But  my 
husband  has  his  weaknesses,  and  he  is  so  weak  as  to  re- 
lent towards  this  Doctor." 

“ It  is  a great  pity,"  croaked  Jacques  Three,  dubious- 
ly shaking  his  head,  with  his  cruel  fingers  at  his  hungry 
mouth  : “ it  is  not  quite  like  a good  citizen  ; it  is  a thing 
to  regret." 

“See  you,"  said  madame,  “I  care  nothing  for  this 
Doctor,  I.  He  may  wear  his  head  or  lose  it,  for  any  inter- 
est I have  in  him  ; it  is  all  one  to  me.  But,  the  Evre- 
monde  people  are  to  be  exterminated,  and  the  wife  and 
child  must  follow  the  husband  and  father." 

“ She  has  a fine  head  for  it,"  croaked  Jacques  Three. 
“I  have  seen  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair  there,  and  they 
looked  charming  when  Sanson  held  them  up.”  Ogre 
that  he  was,  he  spoke  like  an  epicure. 

Madame  Defarge  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  reflected  a 
little. 

“ The  child  also,"  observed  Jacques  Three,  with  a 
meditative  enjoyment  of  his  words,  “ has  golden  hair 
and  blue  eyes.  And  we  seldom  have  a child  there.  It 
is  a pretty  sight  ! " 

“In  a word,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  coming  out  of  her 
short  abstraction,  “ I cannot  trust  my  husband  in  this 
matter.  Not  only  do  I feel,  since  last  night,  that  I dare 
not  confide  to  him  the  details  of  my  projects  ; but  also  I 
feel  that  if  I delay,  there  is  danger  of  his  giving  warn- 
ing, and  then  they  might  escape." 

“ That  must  never  be,"  croaked  Jacques  Three  ; “no 
one  must  escape.  We  have  not  half  enough  as  it  is. 
We  ought  to  have  six  score  a day." 

“In  a , word,”  Madame  Defarge  went  on,  “my  hus- 
h&nd  has  not  my  reason  for  pursuing  this  family  to  an- 
nihilation, and  I have  not  his  reason  for  regarding  this 
Doctor  with  any  sensibility.  I must  act  for  myself, 
therefore.  Come  hither,  little  citiz*en." 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  held  her  in  the  respect,  and 
himself  in  the  submission,  of  mortal  fear,  advanced  with 
his  hand  to  his  red  cap. 

“ Touching  those  signals,  little  citizen,”  said  Madam© 


320 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Defarge,  sternly,  “that  she  made  to  the  prisoners  ; yon 
are  ready  to  hear  witness  to  them  this  very  day?” 

“ Ay,  ay,  why  not  ! ” cried  the  sawyer.  “ Every  day, 
in  all  weathers,  from  two  to  four,  always  signalling, 
sometimes  with  the  little  one,  sometimes  without.  I 
know  what  I know.  I have  seen  with  my  eyes.  ” 

He  made  all  manner  of  gestures  while  he  spoke,  as  if 
in  incidental  imitation  of  some  few  of  the  great  diversity 
of  signals  that  he  had  never  seen. 

“ Clearly  plots,”  said  Jacques  Three.  “ Transpar- 
ently ! ” 

“There  is  no  doubt  of  the  Jury?”  inquired  Madame 
Defarge,  letting  her  eyes  turn  to  him  with  a gloomy 
smile. 

“Rely  upon  the  patriotic  Jury,  dear  citizeness.  I 
answer  for  my  fellow-Jurymen.”# 

“Now,  let  me  see,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  pondering 
again.  “Yet  once  more!  Can  I spare  this  Doctor  to 
my  husband?  I have  no  feeling  either  way.  Can  I spare 
him  ? ” 

“He  would  count  as  one  head,”  observed  Jacques 
Three,  in  a low  voice.  “We  really  have  not  heads 
enough  ; it  would  be  a pity,  I think.” 

“ He  was  signalling  with  her  when  I saw  her,”  argued 
Madame  Defarge  ; “I  cannot  speak  of  one  without  the 
other  ; and  I must  not  be  silent,  and  trust  the  case 
wholly  to  him,  this  little  citizen  here.  For,  I am  not  a 
bad  witness.” 

The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  vied  with  each 
other  in  their  fervent  protestations  that  she  was  the 
most  admirable  and  marvellous  of  witnesses.  The  little 
citizen,  not  to  be  outdone,  declared  her  to  be  a celestial 
witness. 

“ He  must  take  his  chance,”  said  Madame  Defarge. 
“No,  I cannot  spare  him  ! You  are  engaged  at  three 
o'clock  ; you  are  going  to  see  the  batch  of  to-day  ex- 
ecuted.-—You?” 

The  question  was  addressed  to  the  wood-sawyer,  who 
hurriedly  replied  in  the  affirmative  : seizing  the  occasion 
to  add  that  he  was  the  most  ardent  of  Republicans,  and 
that  he  would  be  in  effect  the  most  desolate  of  Repub- 
licans, if  anything  prevented  him  from  enjoying  the 
pleasure  of  smoking  his  afternoon  pipe  in  tha  contem- 
plation of  the  droll-  national  barbar.  He  was  so  very 
demonstrative  herein,  that  he  might  have  been  suspected 
(perhaps  was,  by  the. dark  eyes  that  looked  contemptu- 
ously at  him  out  of  Madame  Defarge’s  head)  of  having 
his  small  individual  fears  for  his  own  personal  safety, 
every  hour  in  the  day. 

“I,”  said  madame,  “am  equally  engaged  at  the  same 
place.  After  it  is  over — say  at  eight  to-night — come  you 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


m 


to  me,  in  Saint  Antoine,  and  we  will  give  information 
against  the  people  at  my  Section.” 

The  wood-sawyer  said  he  would  be  proud  and  flattered 
to  attend  the  citizeness.  The  citizeness  looking  at  him, 
he  became  embarrassed,  evaded  her  glance  as  a small 
dog  would  have  done,  retreated  among  his  wood,  and 
hid  his  confusion  over  the  handle  of  his  saw. 

Madame  Defarge  beckoned  the  Juryman  and  The 
Vengeance  a little  nearer  to  the  door,  and  there  expound- 
ed her  further  views  to  them  thus  : 

“ She  will  now  be  at  home,  awaiting  the  moment  of 
his  death.  She  will  be  mourning  and  grieving.  She 
will  be  in  a state  of  mind  to  impeach  the  justice  of  the 
Republic.  She  will  be  full  of  sympathy  with  its  ene^ 
mies.  I will  go  to  her.” 

“ What  an  admirable  woman  ; what  an  adorabl© 
woman  !”  exclaimed  Jacques  Three,  rapturously.  “ Ah, 
my  cherished  ! ” cried  The  Vengeance  ; and  embraced 
her. 

“Take  you  my  knitting,”  said  Madame  Defarge, 
placing  it  in  her  lieutenant's  hands,  “ and  have  it  ready 
for  me  in  my  usual  seat.  Keep  me  my  usual  chair.  Go 
you  there  straight,  for  there  will  probably  be  a greater 
concourse  than  usual,  to-day.” 

“ I willingly  obey  the  orders  of  my  Chief,”  said  The 
Vengeance,  with  alacrity,  and  kissing  her  cheek.  “You 
will  not  be  late  ? ” 

“ I shall  be  there  before  the  commencement.” 

“And  before  the  tumbrils  arrive.  Be  sure  you  are 
there,  my  soul,”  said  The  Vengeance,  calling  after  her, 
for  she  had  already  turned  into  the  street,  “ before  the 
tumbrils  arrive  ! ” 

Madame  Defarge  slightly  waved  her  hand,  to  imply 
that  she  heard,  and  might  be  relied  upon  to  arrive  in 
good  time,  and  so  went  through  the  mud,  and  round  the 
corner  of  the  prison  wall.  The  Vengeance  and  the 
Jurymen,  looking  after  her  as  she  walked  away,  were 
highly  appreciative  of  her  fine  figure,  and  her  superb 
moral  endowments. 

There  were  many  women  at  that  time,  upon  whom 
the  time  laid  a dreadfully  disfiguring  hand  ; but,  there 
was  not  one  among  them  more  to  be  dreaded  than  this 
ruthless  woman,  now  taking  her  way  along  the  streets. 
Of  a strong  and  fearless  character,  of  shrewd  sense  and 
readiness,  of  great  determination,  of  that  kind  of  beauty 
which  not  only  seems  to  impart  to  its  possessor  firmness 
and  animosity,  but  to  strike  into  others  an  instinctive 
recognition  of  those  qualities  ; the  troubled  time  would 
have  heaved  her  up,  under  any  circumstances. |*  I>ut7 
imbued  from  her  childhood  with  a brooding  sense  of 
wrong,  and  an  inveterate  hatred  of  a class,  opportunity 


822 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


had  developed  her  into  a tigres.%.  She  was  absolutely 
without  pity.  If  she  had  ever  had  the  virtue  in  her,  it 
had  quite  gone  out  of  her. 

f It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  an  innocent  man  was  to  die 
%or  the  sins  of  his  forefathers  ; she  saw,  not  him,  but 
them.  It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  his  wife  was  to  be 
made  a widow  and  his  daughter  an  orphan  ; that  was 
insufficient  punishment,  because  they  were  her  natural 
enemies  and  her  prey,  and  as  such  had  no  right  to  live. 
To  appeal  to  her,  was  made  hopeless  by  her  having  no 
sense  of  pity,  even  for  herself.  If  she  had  been  laid 
low  in  the  streets,  in  any  of  the  many  encounters  in 
which  she  had  been  engaged,  she  would  not  have  pitied 
herself  ; nor,  if  she  had  been  ordered  to  the  axe  to-mor- 
row, would  she  have  gone  to  it  with  any  softer  feeling 
than  a fierce  desire  to  change  places  with  the  man  who 
sent  her  there. 

Such  a heart  Madame  Defarge  carried  under  her  rough 
robe.  Carelessly  worn,  it  was  a becoming  robe  enough, 
in  a certain  weird  way,  and  her  dark  hair  looked  rich 
under  her  coarse  red  cap.  Lying  hidden  in  her  bosom, 
was  a ioaded  pistol.  Lying  hidden  at  her  waist,  was  a 
sharpened  dagger.  Thus  accoutred,  and  walking  with 
the  confident  tread  of  such  a character,  and  with  the 
supple  freedom  of  a woman  who  had  habitually  walked 
in  her  girlhood,  bare-foot  and  bare-legged,  on  the  brown 
sea-sand,  Madame  Defarge  took  her  way  along  the 
streets. 

Now,  when  the  journey  of  the  travelling  coach,  at  that 
Very  moment  waiting  for  the  completion  of  its  load,  had 
been  planned  out  last  night,  the  difficulty  of  taking  Miss 
Pross  in  it  had  much  engaged  Mr.  Lorry’s  attention.  It 
was  not  merely  desirable  to  avoid  overloading  the  coach, 
but  it  was  of  the  highest  importance  that  the  tilne  occu- 
pied in  examining  it  and  its  passengers,  should  be  re- 
duced to  the  utmost ; since  their  escape  might  depend  on 
saving  of  only  a few  seconds  here  and  there.  Finally, 
he  had  proposed,  after  anxious  consideration,  that  Miss 
Pross  and  Jerry,  who  were  at  liberty  to  leave  the  city, 
should  leave  it  at  three  o’clock  in  the  lightest- wheeled 
conveyance  known  to  that  period.  Unencumbered  with 
luggage,  they  would  soon  overtake  the  coach,  and,  pass- 
ing it  and  preceding  it  on  the  road,  would  order  its  horses 
in  advance,  and  greatly  facilitate  its  progress  during  the 
precious  hours  of  the  night,  when  delay  was  the  most  to 
be  dreaded. 

Seeing  in  this  arrangement  the  hope  of  rendering  real 
service  in  that  pressing  emergency.  Miss  Pross  hailed  it 
with  joy.  She  and  Jerry  had  beheld  the  coach  start, 
had  known  who  it  was  that  Solomon  brought,  had  passed 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


some  ten  minutes  in  tortures  of  suspense,  and  were  now 
concluding  their  arrangements  to  follow  the  coach,  even 
as  Madame  Defarge,  taking  her  way  through  the  streets, 
now  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  else-deserted  lodging 
Vn  which  they  held  their  consultation. 

“ Now  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  said  Miss 
Pross,  whose  agitation  was  so  great  that  she  could  hard* 
ly  speak,  or  stand,  or  move,  or  live  : “ what  do  you 
think  of  our  not  starting  from  this  court  yard  ? Another 
carriage  having  already  gone  from  here  to-day,  it  might 
awaken  suspicion.” 

“My  opinion,  miss,”  returned  Mr.  Cuncher,  “is  as 
you’re  right.  Likewise  wot  Fll  stand  by  you,  right  or 
wrong.  ” 

“ I am  so  distracted  with  fear  and  hope  for  our  pre- 
cious creatures,”  said  Miss  Pross,  wildly  crying,  “that  I 
am  incapable  of  forming  any  plan.  Are  you  capable  of 
forming  any  plan,  my  dear  good  Mr.  Cruncher  ? ” 

“ Respectin’  a future  spear  o’  life,  miss,”  returned  Mr. 
Cruncher,  “ I hope  so.  Respectin’  any  present  use  o’ 
this  here  blessed  old  head  o’  mine,  I think  not.  Would 
you  do  me  the  favour,  miss,  to  take  notice  o’  two  prom- 
ises and  wows  wot  it  is  my  wishes  fur  to  record  in  this 
here  crisis  ? ” 

“Oh,  for  gracious  sake!”  cried  Miss  Pross,  still 
wildly  crying,  “ record  them  at  once,  and  get  them  out 
of  the  way,  like  an  excellent  man.” 

“ First,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  was  all  in  a tremble, 
and  who  spoke  with  an  ashy  and  solemn  visage,  “them 
poor  things  well  out  o’  this,  never  no  more  will  I do  it 
never  no  more  ! ” 

“I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  returned  Miss 
Pross,  “that  you  never  will  do  it  again,  whatever  it  is* 
and  I beg  you  not  to  think  it  necessary  to  mention  mors 
particularly  what  it  is.” 

“ No,  miss,”  returned  Jerry,  “it  shall  not  be  named 
to  you.  Second  : them  poor  things  well  out  o’  this,  and 
never  no  more  will  I interfere  with  Mrs.  Cruncher's 
flopping,  never  no  more  ! ” 

“Whatever  housekeeping  arrangement  that  may  be,” 
said  Miss  Pross,  striving  to  dry  her  eyes  and  co  pose 
herself,  “I  have  no  doubt  it  is  best  that  Mr..  Cruncher 
should  have  it  entirely  under  her  own  superintendence 
— O my  poor  darlings  ! ” 

“ I go  so  far  as  to  say,  miss,  morehover,”  proceeded 
Mr.  Cruncher,  with  a most  alarming  tendency  to  hold 
forth  as  from  a pulpit — “ and  let  my  words  be  took  down 
and  took  to  Mrs.  Cruncher  through  yourself — that  wot 
my  opinions  respectin’  flopping  has  undergone  a change, 
and  that  wot  I only  hope  with  ail  my  heart  as  Mrs. 
Cruncher  may  be  a flopping  at  the  present  time.” 


324 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


" There,  there,  there  ! I hope  she  is,  my  dear  man,** 
cried  the  distracted  Miss  Pross.  “and  I hope  she  finds  it 
answering  her  expectations.” 

“ Forbid  it,”  proceeded  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  additional 
solemnity,  additional  slowness,  and  additional  tendency 
to  hold  forth  and  hold  out,  “as  anything  wot  I have 
ever  said  or  done  should  be  wisited  on  my  earnest  wishes 
for  them  poor  creeturs  now  ! Forbid  it  as  w shouldn’t 
all  flop  (if  it  was  anyways  convenient)  to  get  ’em  out  o’ 
this  here  dismal  risk  ! Forbid  it,  miss  ! Wot  I say,  for 
— bid  it  ! ” This  was  Mr.  Cruncher’s  conclusion  after  a 
protracted  but  vain  endeavour  to  find  a better  one. 

And  still  Madame  Defarge  pursuing  her  way  along  tin 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

“ If  we  ever  get  back  to  our  native  land,”  said  Miss 
Pross,  “'you  may  rely  upon  my  telling  Mrs.  Cruncher 
as  much  as  I may  be  able  to  remember  and  understand 
of  what  you  have  so  impressively  said;  and  at  all  events 
you  may  be  sure  that  I shall  bear  witness  t your  being 
thoroughly  in  earnest  at  this  dreadful  tim  . Now,  pray 
let  us  think  ! My  esteemed  Mr.  Cruncher,  let  us  think  \ ” 
Still,  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

“ If  you  were  to  go  before,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “ and 
stop  the  vehicle  and  horses  from  coming  here,  and  were 
to  wait  somewhere  for  me  ; wouldn’t  th**t  be  best?  ” 

Mr.  Cruncher  thought  it  might  be  1 st. 

“ Where  could  you  wait  for  me  ? ” asked  Miss  Pross. 
Mr.  Cruncher  was  so  bewildered  that  he  could  think 
of  no  locality  but  Temple  Bar.  Alas,  Temple  Bar  was 
hundreds  of  miles  away,  and  Madame  Defarge  was 
drawing  very  near  indeed. 

“ By  the  cathedral  door,”  said  Miss  Pross.  “ Would 
it  be  much  out  of  the  way,  to  take  me  in,  near  the 
great  cathedral  door  between  the  two  towers  ? ” 

“ No,  miss,”  answered  Mr.  Cruncher. 

“ Then,  like  the  best  of  men, ’’said  Miss  Pross,  “goto 
ihe  posting-house  straight,  and  make  that  change.  ’ 

“ I am  doubtful,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  hesitating  and 
shaking  his  head,  “ about  leaving  of  you,  you  see.  We 
don’t  know  what  may  happen.” 

“ Heaven  knows  wre  don’t,”  returned  Miss  Pross,  “ but 
have  no  fear  for  me.  Take  me  in  at  the  cathedral,  at 
Three  o’Clock  or  as  near  it  as  you  can,  and  I am  sure  it 
will  be  better  than  our  going  from  here.  I feel  certain 
of  it.  There  ! Bless  you,  Mr.  Cruncher ! Think — not 
Of  me,  but  of  the  lives  that  may  depend  on  both  of  us  ! ** 
This  exordium,  and  Miss  Pross’s  two  hands  in  quite 
agonised  entreaty  clasping  his,  decided  Mr.  Cruncher. 
With  an  encouraging  nod  or  two,  he  immediately  went 


326 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


out  to  alter  tlie  arrangements,  and  left  her  by  herself  to 
follow  as  she  had  proposed. 

The  having  originated  a precaution  which  was  already 
in  course  of  execution,  it  was  a great  relief  to  Mis3 
Pross.  The  necessity  of  composing  her  appearance  so 
'that  it  should  attract  no  special  notice  in  the  streets,  was 
another  relief.  She  looked  at  her  watch,  and  it  was 
twenty  minutes  past  two.  She  had  no  time  to  lose,  but 
must  get  ready  at  once. 

Afraid,  in  her  extreme  perturbation,  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  deserted  rooms,  and  of  half-imagined  faces 
peeping  from  behind  every  open  door  in  them,  Miss  Pross 
got  a basin  of  cold  water  and  began  laving  her  eyes, 
which  were  swollen  and  red.  Haunted  by  her  feverish 
apprehensions,  she  could  not  bear  to  have  her  sight  ob- 
scured for  a minute  at  a time  by  the  dripping  water,  but 
constantly  paused  and  looked  round  to  see  that  there 
was  no  one  watching  her.  In  one  of  those  pauses  she 
recoiled  and  cried  out,  for  she  saw  a figure  standing  in 
the  room. 

The  basin  fell  to  the  ground  broken,  and  the  water 
flowed  to  the  feet  of  Madame  Defarge.  By  strange  stern 
Ways,  and  through  much  staining  blood,  those  feet  had 
come  to  meet  that  water. 

Madame  Defarge  looked  coldly  at  her,  and  said,  “ The 
wife  of  Evremonde  ; where  is  she  ? ” 

It  flashed  upon  Miss  Pross’s  mind  that  the  doors  were 
all  standing  open,  and  would  suggest  the  flight.  Her 
first  act  was  to  shut  them.  There  were  four  in  the 
room,  and  she  shut  them  all.  She  then  placed  herself 
before  the  door  of  the  chamber  which  Lucie  had  occu- 
pied. 

Madame  Defarge’s  dark  eyes  followed  her  through  this 
rapid  movement,  and  rested  on  her  when  it  was  finished. 
Miss  Pross  had  nothing  beautiful  about  her  ; years  had 
not  tamed  the  wildness,  or  softened  the  grimness,  of  her 
appearance  ; but,  she  too  was  a determined  woman  in 
her  different  way,  and  she  measured  Madame  Defarge 
with  her  eyes,  every  inch. 

“You  might,  from  your  appearance,  be  the  wife  of 
Lucifer,”  said  Miss  Pross,  in  her  breathing.  “Never- 
theless, you  shall  not  get  the  better  of  me.  I am  an 
Engl  ish  woman.  ” 

Madame  Defarge  looked  at  her  scornfully,  but  still 
with  something  of  Miss  Pross’s  own  perception  that  they 
two  were  at  bay.  She  saw  a tight,  wiry  woman  before 
her,  as  Mr.  Lorry  had  seen  in  the  same  figure  a woman 
with  a strong  hand,  in  the  years  gone  by.  She  knew 
full  well  that  Miss  Pross  was  the  family’s  devoted  friend; 
Miss  Pross  knew  full  well  that  Madame  Defarge  was  the 
family’s  malevolent  enemy. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


327 


“On  my  way  yonder,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  a 
slight  movement  of  her  hand  towards  the  fatal  spot, 
“ where  they  reserve  my  chair  and  my  knitting  for  me. 
1 am  come  to  make  any  compliments  to  her  in  passing.  I 
wish  to  see  her.” 

“I  know  that  your  intentions  are  evil,”  said  Miss 
Proas,  “ and  you  may  depend  upon  it,  I’ll  hold  my  own 
against  them.” 

Each  spoke  in  her  own  language  ; neither  understood 
the  other’s  words  ; both  were  very  watchful,  and  intent 
to  deduce  from  look  and  manner,  what  the  unintelligible 
words  meant. 

“ It  will  do  her  no  good  to  keep  herself  concealed  from 
ine  at  this  moment,”  said  Madame  Defarge.  “ Good 
patriots  will  know  what  that  means.  Let  me  see  her. 
Go  tell  her  that  I wish  to  see  her.  Do  you  hear  V ” 

“ If  those  eyes  of  your’s  were  bed- winches,”  returned 
Miss  Pross,  “and  I was  an  English  four-poster,  they 
shouldn’t  loose  a splinter  of  me.  No,  you  wicked 
foreign  woman  ; I am  your  match.” 

Madame  Defarge  was  not  likely  to  follow  those  idio= 
matic  remarks  in  detail  ; but,  she  so.  far  understood  them 
as  to  perceive  that  she  was  set  at  naught. 

“Woman  imbecile  and  pig-like!”  haid  Madams 
Defarge,  frowning.  “I  take  no  answer  from  you.  I 
demand  to  see  her.  Either  tell  her  that  I demand  to  se£ 
her,  or  stand  out  of  the  way  of  the  door  and  let  me  go 
to  her  ! ” This,  with  an  angry  explanatory  wave  of  tng 
right  arm. 

“I  little  thought,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “that  I shouli 
ever  want  to  understand  your  nonsensical  language 
but  I would  give  all  I have,  except  the  clothes  I wear,  U 
know  whether  you  suspect  the  truth,  or  any  part  of  it. r 

Neither  of  them  for  a single  moment  released  th® 
other’s  eyes.  Madame  Defarge  had  not  moved  from  th* 
spot  where  she  stood  when  Miss  Pross  first  became 
aware  of  her  ; but,  she  now  advanced  one  step. 

• “lama  Briton,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “lam  desperate. 
I don’t  care  an  English  Twopence  for  myself.  I know 
that  the  longer  I keep  you  here,  the  greater  hope  there  is 
for  my  Ladybird.  I’ll  not  leave  a handful  of  that  dark 
hair  upon  your  head,  if  you  lay  a finger  on  me  ! ” 

Thus  Miss  Pross,  with  a shake  of  her  head  and  a flash 
of  her  eyes  between  every  rapid  sentence,  and  every 
rapid  sentence  a whole  breath.  Thus  Miss  Pross,  who 
had  never  struck  a blow  in  her  life. 

But,  her  courage  was  of  that  emotional  nature  that  it 
brought  the  irrepressible  tears  into  her  eyes.  This  was 
a courage  that  Madam  3 Defarge  so  little  comprehended 
as  to  mistake  for  weakness.  “ Ha,  ha  ! ” she  laughed, 
“you  poor  wretch  ! What  are  you  worth  ! I address 


328 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


myself  to  that  Doctor/’  Then  she  raised  her  voice  and 
called  out,  “ Citizen  Doctor!  Wife  of  Evremonde  ! 
Child  of  Evremonde  ! Any  person  but  this  miserable 
fool,  answer  the  Citizeness  Defarge  ! ” 

Perhaps  the  following  silence,  perhaps  some  latent 
disclosure  in  the  expression  of  Miss  Pross’s  face,  perhaps 
a sudden  misgiving  apart  from  either  suggestion,  whis* 
pered  to  Madame  Defarge  that  they  were  gone.  Thre§ 
of  the  doors  she  opened  swiftly,  and  looked  in. 

“ Those  rooms  are  all  in  disorder,  there  has  been 
hurried  packing,  there  are  odds  and  ends  upon  the 
ground.  There  is  no  one  in  that  room  behind  you  I Let 
me  look.” 

“ Never  !”  said  Miss  Pross,  who  understood  the  re- 
quest  as  perfectly  as  Madame  Defarge  understood  the 
answer. 

If  they  are  not  in  that  room,  they  are  gone,  and  can 
be  pursued  and  brought  back,”  said  Madame  Defarge  to 
herself. 

“ As  long  as  you  don’t  know  whether  they  are  in  that 
room  or  not,  you  are  uncertain  what  to  do,”  said  Miss 
Pross  to  Aerself  ; " and  you  shall  not  know  that,  if  I can 
prevent  your  knowing  it ; and  know  that,  or  not  know 
that,  you  shall  not  leave  here  while  I can  hold  you.” 

c*'  I have  been  in  the  streets  from  the  first,  nothing  has 
stopped  me,  I will  tear  you  to  pieces  but  I will  have  you 
from  that  door,”  said  Madame  Defarge. 

“ We  are  alone  at  the  top  of  a high  house  in  a solitary 
court-yard,  we  are  not  likely  to  be  heard,  and  I pray  for 
bodily  strength  to  keep  you  here,  while  every  minute 
you  are  here  is  worth  a hundred  thousand  guineas  to  my 
darling,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

Madame  Defarge  made  at  the  door.  Miss  Pross,  on 
the  instinct  of  the  moment,  seized  her  round  the  waist 
in  both  her  arms,  and  held  her  tight.  It  was  in  vain 
for  Madame  Defarge  to  struggle  and  to  strike  ; Miss 
Pross,  with  the  vigorous  tenacity  of  love,  always  so 
much  stronger  than  hate,  clasped  her  tight,  and  even 
lifted  her  from  the  floor  in  the  struggle  that  they  had. 
The  two  hands  of  Madame  Defarge  buffeted  and  tore  her 
face  ; but,  Miss  Pross,  with  her  head  down,  held  her 
round  the  waist,  and  clung  to  her  with  more  than  the 
hold  of  a drowning  woman. 

Soon,  Madame  Defarge’s  hands  ceased  to  strike,  and 
felt  at  her  encircled  waist.  “ It  is  under  my  arm,”  said 
Miss  Pross,  in  smothered  tones,  “ you  shall  not  draw  it. 
I am  stronger  than  you,  I bless  Heaven  for  it.  IT!  hold 
you  till  one  or  other  of  us  faints  or  dies  ! ” 

Ivladame  Defarge’s  hands  were  at  her  bosom.  Miss 
Pross  looked  up,  saw  what  it  was,  struck  at  it**  struck 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


329 


out  a flash  and  a crash,  and  stood  alone-blinded  with 
smoke. 

All  this  was  in  a second.  As  the  smoke  cleared,  leav- 
ing an  awful  stillness,  it  passed  out  on  the  air,  like  the 
soul  of  the  furious  woman  whose  body  lay  lifeless  on 
the  ground. 

In  the  first  fright  and  horror  of  her  situation,  Miss 
Pross  passed  the  body  as  far  from  it  as  she  could,  and 
ran  down  the  stairs  to  call  for  fruitless  help.  Happily, 
she  bethought  herself  of  the  consequences  of  what  she 
did,  in  time  to  check  herself  and  go  back.  It  was  dread- 
ful to  go  in  at  the  door  again  ; but,  she  did  go  in,  and 
even  went  near  it,  to  get  the  bonnet  and  other  things 
that  she  must  wear.  These  she  put  on,  out  on  the  stair- 
cade,  first  shutting  and  locking  the  door  and  taking  away 
the  key.  She  then  sat  down  on  the  stairs  a few  moments, 
to  breathe  and  to  cry,  and  theh  got  up  and  hurried  away. 

By  good  fortune  she  had  a veil  on  her  bonnet,  or  she 
could  hardly  have  gone  along  the  streets  without  being 
stopped.  By  good  fortune,  too,  she  was  naturally  so 
peculiar  in  appearance  as  not  to  show  disfigurement  like 
any  other  woman.  She  needed  both  advantages,  for  the/ 
marks  of  griping  fingers  were  deep  in  her  face,  and  her 
hair  was  torn,  and  her  dress  (hastily  composed  with  un- 
steady hands)  was  clutched  and  dragged  a hundred 
ways. 

In  crossing  the  bridge,  she  dropped  the  door  key  in 
the  river.  Arriving  at  the  cathedral  some  few  minutes 
before  her  escort,  and  waiting  there,  she  thought,  what 
if  the  key  were  already  taken  in  a net,  what  if  it  were 
identified,  what  if  the  door  were  opened  and  the  remains 
discovered,  what  if  she  were  stopped  at  the  gate,  sent  to 
prison,  and  charged  with  murder  ! In  the  midst  of  these 
fluttering  thoughts,  the  escort  appeared,  took  her  in, 
and  took  her  away. 

“ Is  there  any  noise,  in  the  streets?  ” she  asked  him. 

“ The  usual  noises,”  Mr.  Cruncher  replied ; and 
looked  surprised  by  the  question  and  by  her  aspect. 

“ I don’t  hear  you,”  said  Miss  Pross.  “ What  do  you 
say?” 

It  was  in  vain  for  Mr.  Cruncher  to  repeat  what  he 
said  ; Miss  Pross  could  not  hear  him.  “ So  I’ll  nod  my 
head,”  thought  Mr.  Cruncher,  amazed,  “ at  all  events 
she’ll  see  that.”  And  she  did. 

“ Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets  now  ? ” asked  Miss 
Pross  again,  presently. 

Again  Mr.  Cruncher  nodded  his  head. 

“ I don’t  hear  it.” 

“ Gone  deaf  in  an  hour  ? ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  ruminat- 
ing, with  his  mind  much  disturbed  ; “ wot’s  come  to 
he  r?” 


380 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“I  feel,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “as  if  there  had  been  a 
flash  and  a crash,  and  that  crash  was  the  last  thing  I 
should  ever  hear  in  this  life.” 

“Blest  if  she  ain’t  in  a queer  condition!”  said  Mr. 
Cruncher,  more  and  more  disturbed.  “Wot  can  she 
have  been  a takin’,  to  keep  her  courage  up?  Hark  ! 
There’s  the  roll  of  them  dreadful  carts  ! You  can  hear 
that,  miss?” 

“ I can  hear,”  said  Miss  Pross,  seeing  that  he  spoke  to 
her,  “ nothing.  O,  my  good  man,  there  was  first  a great 
crash,  and  then  a great  stillness,  and  that  stillness 
seems  to  be  fixed  and  unchangeable,  never  to  be  broken 
any  more  as  long  as  my  life  lasts.” 

“ If  she  don’t  hear  the  roll  of  those  dreadful  carts, 
now  very  nigh  their  journey’s  end,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
glancing  over  his  shoulder,  “ it’s  my  opinion  that  indeed 
she  never  will  hear  anything  else  in  this  world.” 

And  indeed  she  never  did. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Footsteps  Die  out  far  Ever. 

Along  the  Paris  streets,  the  death-carts  rumble,  hol- 
low and  harsh.  Six  tumbrils  carry  the  day’s  wine  to 
La  Guillotine.  All  the  devouring  and  insatiate  Mon- 
sters imagined  since  imagination  could  record  itself,  are 
fused  in  the  one  realisation,  Guillotine.  And  yet  there 
is  not  in  France,  with  its  rich  variety  of  soil  and  climate, 
a blade,  a leaf,  a root,  a sprig,  a peppercorn,  which  will 
grow  to  maturity  under  conditions  more  certain  than 
those  that  have  produced  this  horror.  Crush  humanity 
out  of  shape  once  more,  under  similar  hammers,  and  it 
will  twist  itself  into  the  same  tortured  forms.  Sow  the 
same  seed  of  rapacious  licence  and  oppression  ever  again, 
and  it  will  surely  yield  the  same  fruit  according  to  its 
kind. 

Six  tumbrils  roll  along  the  streets.  Change  these 
back  again  to  what  they  were,  thou  powerful  enchanter. 
Time,  and  they  shall  be  seen  to  be  the  carriages  of  abso 
lute  monarchs,  the  equipages  of  feudal  nobles,  the  toi- 
lettes of  flaring  Jezabels,  the  churches  that  are  not  my 
father’s  house  but  dens  of  thieves,  the  huts  of  millions 
of  starving  peasants  ! No  ; the  great  magician  who 
majestically  works  out  the  appointed  order  of  the  Crea- 
tor, never  reverses  his  transformations.  “ If  thou  be 
changed  into  this  shape  by  the  will  of  God,”  say  the 
seers  to  the  enchanted,  in  the  wise  Arabian  stories. 
“ then  remain  so  ! But,  if  thou  wear  this  form  through 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


331 


fcnere  passing  conjuration,  then  resume  tliy  former  as- 
pect ! ” Changeless  and  hopeless,  the  tumbrils  roll  along. 

As  the  sombre  wheels  of  the  six  carts  go  round,  they 
seem  to  plow  up  a long  crooked  furrow  among  the  pop- 
ulace in  the  streets.  Ridges  of  faces  are  thrown  to 
this  side  and  to  that,  and  the  ploughs  go  steadily  on- 
ward. So  used  are  the  regular  inhabitants  of  the  houses 
to  the  spectacle,  that  in  many  windows  there  are  no  peo- 
ple, and  in  some  the  occupations  of  the  hands  are  not  so 
much  as  suspended,  while  the  eyes  survey  the  faces  in  the 
tumbrils.  Here  and  there,  the  inmate  has  visitors  to  see 
the  sight ; then  he  points  his  finger,  with  something  of 
the  complacency  of  'a  curator  or  authorised  exponent,  to 
this  cart  and  to  this,  and  seems  to  tell  who  sat  here 
yesterday,  and  who  there  the  day  before. 

Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some  observe  these 
things,  and  all  things  on  their  last  roadside,'  with  an  im- 
passive stare ; others,  with  a lingering  interest  in  the 
ways  of  life  and  men.  Some,  seated  with  drooping 
heads,  are  sunk  in  silent  despair  ; again,  there  are  some 
so  heedful  of  their  looks  that  they  cast  upon  the  multi- 
tude such  glances  as  they  have  seen  in  theatres,  and  in 
pictures.  Several  close  their  eyes,  and  think,  or  try  to 
get  their  straying  thoughts  together.  Only  one,  and  he 
a miserable  creature  of  a crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered 
and  made  drunk  by  horror  that  he  sings,  and  tries  to 
dance.  Not  one  of  the  whole  number  appeals,  by  look 
or  gesture,  to  the  pity  of  the  people. 

There  is  a guard  of  sundry  horsemen  riding  abreast  of 
the  tumbrils,  and  faces  are  often  turned  up  to  some  of 
them  and  they  are  asked  some  question.  It  would  seem 
to  be  always  the  same  question,  xor,  it  is  always  followed 
by  a press  of  people  towards  the  third  cart.  The  horse- 
men abreast  of  that  cart,  frequently  point  out  one  man 
in  it  with  their  swords.  The  leading  curiosity  is,  to 
know  which  is  he  ; he  stands  at  the  back  of  the  tumbril 
with  his  head  bent  down,  to  converse  with  a mere  girl 
who  sits  on  the  side  of  the  cart,  and  holds  his  hand. 
He  has  no  curiosity  or  care  for  the  scene  about  him,  and 
always  speaks  to  the  girl.  Here  and  there  in  a long 
Street  of  St.  Honore,  cries  are  raised  against  him.  If 
they  moved  him  at  all,  it  is  only  to  a quiet  smile,  as  he 
shakes  his  hair  a little  more  loosely  about  his  face.  He 
cannot  easily  touch  his  face,  his  arms  being  bound. 

On  the  steps  of  a church,  awaiting  the  coming- up  of 
the  tumbrils,  stands  the  spy  and  prison-sheep.  He  looks 
into  the  first  of  them  : not  there.  He  looks  into  the  sec- 
ond : not  there.  He  already  asks  himself,  “ H^s  he  sac- 
rificed me  ? ” when  his  face  clears,  as  he  looks  into  the 
third. 

“ Which  is  Evremonde  ? ” said  a man  behind  him. 


332 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ That.  At  the  back  there.” 

“ With  his  hand  in  the  girl’s  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The  man  cries,  “ Down,  Evremonde  ! To  the  GuiL 
lotine  all  aristocrats  ! Down,  Evremonde  ! ” 

“ Hush,  hush  ! ” the  spy  entreats  him,  timidly, 

“ And  why  not,  citizen  ? ” 

et  He  is  going  to  pay  the  forfeit  ; it  will  be  paid  in  five 
minutes  more.  Let  him  be  at  peace.” 

But,  the  man  continuing  to  exclaim,  “Down,  Evre- 
monde ! ” the  face  of  Evremonde  is  for  a moment  turned 
towards  him.  Evremonde  then  sees  the  spy,  and  looks 
attentively  at  him,  and  goes  his  way. 

The  clocks  are  on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  the  furrow 
ploughed  among  the  populace  is  turning  round,  to  come 
on  into  the  place  of  execution,  and  end.  The  ridges 
thrown  to  this  side  and  to  that,  now  crumble  in  and 
close  behind  the  last  plough  as  it  passes  on,  for  all  are 
following  to  the  Guillotine.  In  front  of  it,  seated  ip 
chairs  as  in  a garden  of  public  diversion,  are  a number 
of  women,  busily  knitting.  On  one  of  the  foremost  chairs, 
stands  The  Vengeance,  looking  about  for  her  friend. 

“ Therese  ! ” she  cries,  in  her  shrill  tones.  “ Who  has 
seen  her?  Therese  Defarge  ! ” 

“ She  never  missed  before,”  says  a knitting- woman  of 
the  sisterhood. 

“ No  ; nor  will  she  miss  now,”  cries  The  Vengeance, 
petulantly.  “ Therese.” 

“ Louder,”  the  woman  recommends. 

Ay  ! Louder,  Vengeance,  much  louder,  and  still 
she  will  scarcely  hear  thee.  Louder  yet.  Vengeance, 
with  a little  oath  or  so  added,  and  yet  it  will  hardly 
bring  her.  Send  other  women  up  and  down  to  seek  her, 
lingering  somewhere  ; and  yet,  although  the  messengers 
have  done  dread  deeds,  it  is  questionable  whether  of 
their  own  wills  they  will  go  far  enough  to  find  her  ! 

“Bad  Fortune  !”  cries  The  Vengeance,  stamping  her 
foot  in  the  chair,  “and  here  are  the  tumbrils!  And 
Evremonde  will  be  despatched  in  a wink,  and  she  not 
here  ! See  her  knitting  in  my  hand,  and  her  empty 
chair  ready  for  her.  I cry  with  vexation  and  disappoints 
ment  ! ” 

As  The  Vengeance  descends  from  her  elevation  to  do 
it,  the  tumbrils  begin  to  discharge  their  loads.  The 
ministers  of  Sainte  Guillotine  are  robed  and  ready.  Crash ! 
— a head  is  held  up,  and  the  knitting- women  who  scarce- 
ly lifted  their  eyes  to  look  at  it  a moment  ago  when  it 
could  think  and  speak,  count  One. 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on  ; the  third 
/iomes  up.  Crash  ! — And  the  knitting- women,  never  fal- 
tering or  pausing  in  their  work,  count  Two. 


THE  THIRD  TUMBREI. 

— A Taie  of  Two  Cities,  Yol.  Eleven,  page  333. 


384 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  supposed  Evremonde  descends,  and  the  seamstress 
is  lifted  out  next  after  him.  He  has  not  relinquished 
her  patient  hand  in  getting  out,  but  still  holds  it  as  he 
promised.  He  gently  places  her  with  her  back  to  the 
crashing  engine  that  constantly  whirrs  up  and  falls,  and 
she  looks  into  his  face  and  thanks  him. 

“ But  for  you,  dear  stranger,  I should  not  be  so  com- 
posed, for  I am  naturally  a poor  little  thing,  faint  of 
heart ; nor  should  I have  been  able  to  raise  my  thoughts 
to  Him  who  was  put  to  death,  that  we  might  have  hope 
and  comfort  here  to-day.  I think  you  were  sent  to  me 
by  Heaven.’’ 

“Or  you  to  me,”  says  Sydney  Carton.  “Keep  your 
eyes  upon  me,  dear  child,  and  mind  no  other  object.” 

“ I mind  nothing  while  I hold  your  hand.  I shall 
mind  nothing  when  I let  it  go,  if  they  are  rapid.” 

“ They  will  be  rapid.  Fear  not  ! ” 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast- thinning  throng  of  victims., 
but  they  speak  as  if  they  were  alone.  Eye  to  eye,  voice 
to  voice,  hand  to  hapd,  heart  to  heart,  these  two  children 
of  the  Universal  Mother,  else  so  wide  apart  and  differing, 
have  come  together  on  the  dark  highway,  to  repair  home 
together  and  to  rest  in  her  bosom. 

“ Brave  and  generous  friend,  will  you  let  me  ask  you 
one  last  question  ? I am  very  ignorant,  and  it  troubles 
me — just  a little.” 

“ Tell  me  what  it  is.” 

‘ ‘ I have  a cousin,  an  only  relative  and  an  orphan,  like 
myself,  whom  I love  very  dearly.  She  is  five  years 
younger  than  I,  and  she  lives  in  a farmer’s  house  in  the 
south  country.  Poverty  parted  us,  and  she  knows  noth- 
ing of  my  fate — for  I cannot  write — and  if  I could,  how 
should  I tell  her  ! It  is  better  as  it  is.” 

“Yes,  yes  : better  as  it  is.” 

“ What  I have  been  thinking  as  we  came  along,  and 
what  I am  still  thinking  now,  as  I look  into  your  kind 
strong  face  which  gives  me  so  much  support,  is  this 
If  the  Republic  really  does  good  to  the  poor,  and  they 
come  to  be  less  hungry,  and  in  all  ways  to  suffer  less, 
she  may  live  a long  time  ; she  may  even  live  to  be  old.” 

“ What  then,  my  gentle  sister? ” 

“Do  you  think  the  uncomplaining  eyes  in  which 
there  is  so  much  endurance,  fill  with  tears,  and  the  lips 
part  a little  more  and  tremble  : “ that  it  will  seem  long 
to  me,  while  I wait  for  her  in  the  better  land  where  I 
trust  both  you  and  I will  be  mercifully  sheltered  ? ” 

“ It  cannot  be,  my  child  ; there  is  no  Time  there,  and 
no  trouble  there.” 

“You  comfort  me  so  much  ! I am  so  ignorant.  Am 
I to  kiss  you  now  ? Is  the  moment  come  ? ” 

“Yes.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


‘335 


She  kisses  his  lips  ; he  kisses  hers  ; they  solemnly 
bless  each  other.  The  spare  hand  does  not  tremble  as 
he  releases  it  ; nothing  worse  than  a sweet,  bright  con- 
stancy is  in  the  patient  face.  She  goes  next  before  him 
—is  gone  ; the  knitting- women  count  Twenty  Two. 

“I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord  : 
he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall 
he  live  : and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall 
never  die.” 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of 
many  faces,  the  pressing  on  of  many  footsteps  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  crowd,  so  that  it  swells  forward  in  a mass, 
like  one  great  heave  of  water,  all  flashes  away.  Twenty- 
Three. 


They  said  of  him,  about  the  city  that  night,  that  it 
was  the  peacefullest  man’s  face  ever  beheld  there.  Many 
added  that  he  looked  sublime  and  prophetic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  sufferers  by  the  same  axe — 
a woman — had  asked  at  the  foot  of  the  same  scaffold,  not 
long  before,  to  be  allowed  to  write  down  the  thoughts 
that  were  inspiring  her.  If  he  had  given  any  utterance 
to  his,  and  they  were  prophetic,  they  would  have  been 
these  : 

I see  Barsad,  and  Cly,  Defarge,  The  Vengeance,  the 
Juryman,  the  Judge,  long  ranks  of  the  new  oppressors 
who  have  risen  on  the  destruction  of  the  old,  perishing 
by  this  retributive  instrument,  before  it  shall  cease  out 
of  its  present  use.  I see  a beautiful  city  and  a brilliant 
people  rising  from  this  abyss,  and,  in  their  struggles  to 
be  truly  free,  in  their  triumphs  and  defeats,  through  long 
long  years  to  come,  I see  the  evil  of  this  time  and  of  the 
previous  time  of  which  this  is  the  natural  birth,  grad- 
ually making  expiation  for  itself  and  wearing  out. 

“ I see  the  lives  for  which  I lay  down  my  life,  peace- 
ful, useful,  prosperous  and  happy,  in  that  England 
which  X shall  see  no  more.  I see  Her  with  a child  upon 
her  bosom,  who  bears  my  name.  I see  her  father,  aged 
and  bent,  but  otherwise  restored,  and  faithful  to  all  men 
in  his  healing  office,  and  at  peace.  I see  the  good  old 
man,  so  long  their  friend,  in  ten  year’s  time  enriching 
them  with  all  he  has,  and  passing  tranquilly  to  his  re- 
ward. 

“I  see  that  Xhold  a sanctuary  in  their  hearts,  and  in 
the  hearts  of  their  descendants,  generations  hence.  X 
see  her,  an  old  woman,  weeping  for  me  on  the  anniver- 
sary of  this  day.  I see  her  and  her  husband,  their 
course  done,  lying  side  by  side  in  their  last  earthly  bed, 
and  X know  that  each  was  not  more  honoured  and 
held  sacred  in  the  other’s  soul,  than  I was  in  the  souls 
Of  both. 


336 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“I  see  that  child  who  lay  upon  her  bosom  and  who 
bore  my  name,  a man,  winning*  his  way  up  in  that  path 
of  life  which  once  was  mine.  I see  him  winning  it  so 
well,  that  my  name  is  made  illustrious  thereby  the  light 
of  his.  I see  the  blots  I threw  upon  it,  faded  away.  I 
see  him,  foremost  of  just  judges  and  honoured  men, 
bringing  a boy  of  my  name,  with  a forehead  that  I know 
and  golden  hair,  to  this  place — then  fair  to  look  upon, 
with  not  a trace  of  this  day's  disfigurement — and  I hear 
him  tell  the  child  my  story,  with  a tender  and  a falter- 
ing voice. 

“ It  is  a far,  far  better  thing  that  I do,  than  I hav© 
ever  done  ; it  is  a far,  far  better  rest  that  I go  to,  than. 
I have  ever  known/' 


KND  OF  “ A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


837 


Dombey  and  Son, 


PREFACE. 

X MAK®  so  bold  as  to  believe  that  the  faculty  (or  the 
i&afoit)  of  closely  and  carefully  observing  the  charactery 
©f  men,  is  a rare  one.  I have  not  even  found,  within 
bay  experience,  that  the  faculty  (or  the  habit)  of  closels 
and  carefully  observing  so  much  as  the  faces  of  men,  is 
a general  one  by  any  means.  The  two  commonest  mis- 
takes in  judgment  that  1 suppose  to  arise  from  the 
former  default,  are,  the  confounding  of  shyness  with 
arrogance,  and  the  not  understanding  that  an  obstinate 
nature  exists  in  a perpetual  struggle  with  itself. 

Mr.  Dombey  undergoes  no  violent  internal  change, 
either  in  this  book,  or  in  life.  A sense  of  his  injustice 
is  within  him  all  along.  The  more  he  represses  it,  the 
more  unjust  he  necessarily  is.  Internal  shame  and  ex- 
ternal circumstances  may  bring  the  contest  to  the  sur- 
face in  a week,  or  a day  ; but,  it  has  been  a contest  for 
years,  and  is  only  fought  out  after  a long  balance  of 
victory. 

Years  have  elapsed  since  I dismissed  Mr.  Dombey.  f 
have  not  been  impatient  to  offer  this  critical  remark 
upon  him,  and  I offer  it  with  some  confidence. 

I began  this  book  by  the  lake  of  Geneva,  and  went  on 
with  it  for  some  months  in  France.  The  association  be- 
tween the  writing  and  the  place  of  writing  is  so  curiously 
strong  in  my  mind,  that  at  this  day,  although  I know 
every  stair  in  the  little  Midshipman’s  house,  and  could 
swear  to  every  pew  in  the  church  in  which  Florence  was 
married,  or  to  every  young  gentleman’s  bedstead  in 
Doctor  Blimber’s  establishment,  I yet  confusedly  imagine 
Captain  Cattle  as  secluding  himself  from  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  Similarly, 
when  I am  reminded  by  any  chance  of  what  it  was  that 
the  waves  were  always  saying,  I wander  in  my  fancy  for 
a whole  night  about  the  streets  of  Paris— as  I really  did, 
with  a heavy  heart,  on  the  night  when  my  little  friend 
and  I parted  company  for  ever. 

-O  ‘ > 1 


338 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Dombey  and  Son, 

Dombey  sat  in  tlie  corner  of  the  darkened  room  in  the 
great  arm-chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Son  lay  tucked  up 
warm  in  a little  basket  bedstead,  carefully  disposed  on 
a low  settee  immediately  in  front  of  the  fire  and  close 
to  it,  as  if  his  constitution  were  analogous  to  that  of  a 
hmffin,  and  it  was  essential  to  toast  him  brown  while  he 
was  very  new. 

Dombey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age.  Son 
about  eight-and-forty  minutes.  Dombey  was  rather  bald, 
rather  red,  and  though  a handsome  well-made  man,  too 
stern  and  pompous  in  appearance,  to  be  prepossessing. 
Son  was  very  bald,  and  very  red,  and  though  (of  course) 
an  undeniably  fine  infant,  somewhat  crushed  and  spotty 
in  his  general  effect  as  yet.  On  the  brow  of  Dombey, 
Time  and  his  brother  Care  had  set  some  marks,  as  on  a 
tree  that  was  to  come  down  in  good  time — remorseless 
twins  they  are  for  striding  through  their  human  forests, 
notching  as  they  go — while  the  countenance  of  Son  was 
crossed  and  re-crossed  with  a thousand  little  creases, 
which  the  same  deceitful  Time  would  take  delight  in 
smoothing  out  an  1 wearing  away  with  the  flat  part  of  his 
scythe,  as  a p .ation  of  the  surface  for  nis  deeper 
operations. 

Dombey,  exulting  in  the  long-looked-for  event,  jingled 
and  jingled  the  heavy  gold  watch-chain  that  depended 
frow  below  his  trim  blue  coat,  whereof  the  buttons 
sparkled  phosphorescently  in  the  feeble  rays  of  the 
distant  fire.  Son,  with  his  little  fists  curled  up  and 
clenched,  seemed,  in  his  feeble  way,  to  be  squaring  at 
existence  for  having  come  upon  him  so  unexpectedly. 

“ The  house  will  once  again,  Mrs.  Dombey/5  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  “ be  not  only  in  name  but  in  fact  Dombey  and 
Son  ; Dom-bey  and  Son  ! ” 

The  words  had  such  a softening  influence,  that  he  ap. 
pended  a term  of  endearment  to  Mrs.  Dombey5s  name 
(though  not  without  some  hesitation,  as  being  a man  but 
little  used  to  that  form  of  address)  : and  said,  “Mrs. 
Dombey,  my — my  dear.” 

A transient  flush  of  faint  surprise,  overspread  tliesic^ 
lady’s  face  as  she  raised  her  eyes  towards  him. 

“ He  will  be  christened  Paul,  my — Mrs.  Dombey— of 
course. 55 

She  feebly  echoed,  “ Of  course,”  or  rather  expressed 
it  by  tbs  motion  of  her  lips,  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

“His  father’s  name,  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  his  grand- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


339 


flier’s  ! I wisii  his  grandfather  were  alive  this  day  P3 
And  again  he  said  “ Dom-hey  and  Son/’  in  exactly  the 
same  tone  as  before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s  life.  The  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son 
to  trade  in,  and  the  snn  and  moon  were  made  to  give 
them  light.  Rivers  and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their 
ships  ; rainbows  gave  them  promise  of  fair  weather  : 
winds  blew  for  or  against  their  enterprises  ; stars  and 
planets  circled  in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  inviolate  a 
system  of  which  they  were  the  centre.  Common  abbre- 
viations took  new  meanings  in  his  eyes,  and  had  sole 
reference  to  them.  A.  D.  had  no  concern  with  anno 
Domini,  but  sood  for  anno  Dombei— and  Son. 

He  had  risen,  as  his  father  had  before  him,  in  the 
course  of  life  and  death,  from  Son  to  Dombey,  and  for 
nearly  twenty  years  had  been  the  sole  representative  of 
the  firm.  Of  those  years  he  had  been  married,  ten — 
married,  as  some  said,  to  a lady  with  no  heart  to  give 
him  ; whose  happiness,  was  in  the  past,  and  who  was 
content  to  bind  her  broken  spirit  to  the  dutiful  and  meek 
endurance  of  the  present.  Such  idle  talk  was  little  like- 
ly to  reach  the  ears  of  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  it  nearly  con- 
cerned ; and  probably  no  one  in  the  world  would  have 
received  it  with  such  utter  incredulity  as  he,  if  it  had 
reached  him.  Dombey  and  Son  had  often  dealt  in 
hides,  but  never  in  hearts.  They  left  that  fancy  ware  to 
boys  and  girls,  and  boarding-schools  and  books.  Mr. 
Dombey  would  have  reasoned  : That  a matrimonial  alli- 
ance with  himself  must , in  the  nature  of  things,  be  grati- 
fying and  honourable  to  any  woman  of  common  sense. 
That  the  hope  of  giving  birth  to  a new  partner  in  such  a 
house,  could  not  fail  to  awaken  a glorious  and  stirring 
ambition  in  the  breast  of  the  least  ambitious  of  her  sex. 
That  Mrs.  Dombey  had  entered  on  that  social  contract  of 
matrimony  : almost  necessarily  part  of  a genteel  and 
wealthy  station,  even  without  reference  to  the  perpetua- 
tion of  family  firms  : with  her  eyes  fully  open  to  these 
advantages.  That  Mrs.  Dombey  had  had  daily  practical 
knowledge  of  his  position  in  society.  That  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey had  always  sat  at  the  head  ol  his  table,  and  done 
the  honours  of  his  house  in  a remarkably  lady-like  and 
becoming  manner.  That  Mrs.  Dombey  must  liave  been 
happy.  That  she  couldn’t  help  it. 

Or,  at  all  events,  with  one  drawback.  Yes.  That  he 
would  have  allowed.  With  only  one  ; but  that  one 
certainly  involving  much.  They  had  been  married  ten 
years,  and  until  this  present  day  on  which  Mr.  Dombey 
sat  jingling  and  jingling  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain  in 
the  great  arm-chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  had  had  n$ 
issue. 


340 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


— To  speak  of ; none  worth  mentioning.  There  ha£ 
been  a girl  some  six  years  before,  and  the  child,  who  had 
stolen  into  the  chamber  unobserved,  was  now  crouching 
timidly,  in  a corner  whence  she  could  see  her  mother’s 
face.  But  what  was  a girl  to  Dombey  and  Son  ! In  the 
capital  of  the  House’s  name  and  dignity,  such  a child 
was  merely  a piece  of  base  coin  that  couldn’t  be  invested 
—a  bad  boy — nothing  more. 

Mr.  Dombey’s  cup  of  satisfaction  was  so  full  at  this 
moment,  however,  that  he  felt  he  could  afford  a drop  or 
two  of  its  contents,  even  to  sprinkle  on  the  dust  in  the 
by-path  of  his  little  daughter. 

So  he  said,  “ Florence,  you  may  go  and  look  at  your 
pretty  brother,  if  you  like,  I dare  say.  Don’t  touch 
him  i ” 

The  child  glanced  keenly  at  the  blue  coat  and  stiff 
white  cravat,  which,  with  a pair  of  creaking  boots  and  a 
Very  loud-ticking  watch,  embodied  her  idea  of  a father  ; 
but  her  eyes  returned  to  her  mother’s  face  immediately, 
and  she  neither  moved  nor  answered. 

Next  moment,  the  lady  had  opened  her  eyes  and  seen 
the  child ; and  the  child  had  run  towards  her  ; and, 
standing  on  tiptoe,  the  better  to  hide  her  face  in  her 
embrace,  had  clung  about  her  with  a desperate  affection 
very  much  at  variance  with  her  years. 

“ Oh  Lord  bless  me  !”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  testily. 
M A very  ill-advised  and  feverish  proceeding  this,  I am 
sure.  I had  better  ask  Dr.  Peps  if  he’ll  have  the  good- 
ness to  step  up-stairs  again  perhaps.  I’ll  go  down.  I’ll 
go  down.  I needn’t  beg  you,”  he  added,  pausing  for  a 
moment  at  the  settee  before  the  fire,  “ to  take  particular 
care  of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  ” 

“ Blockitt,  sir?”  suggested  the  nurse,  a simpering 
piece  of  faded  gentility,  who  did  not  presume  to  state  her 
name  as  a fact,  but  merely  offered  it  as  a mild  sugges- 
tion. 

“Of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Blockitt.” 

“No  sir,  indeed.  I remember  when  Miss  Florence 
was  bom — ” 

“ Ay,  ay,  ay,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  bending  over  the 
basket  bedstead,  and  slightly  bending  his  brows  at  the 
same  time.  “Miss  Florence  was  all  very  well,  but  this 
is  another  matter.  This  young  gentleman  has  to  accom- 
plish a destiny.  A destiny,  little  fellow  ! ” As  he  thus 
apostrophised  the  infant  he  raised  one  of  his  hands  to 
his  lips,  and  kissed  it ; then,  seeming  to  fear  that  the 
action  involved  some  compromise  of  his  dignity,  went, 
awkwardly  enough,  away. 

Doctor  Parker  Peps,  one  of  the  court  physicians,  and 
a man  of  immense  reputation  for  assisting  at  the  increase 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


341 


of  great  families,  was  walking  up  and  down  the  draw- 
ing-room with  his  hands  behind  him,  to  the  unspeakable 
admiration  of  the  family  surgeon,  who  had  regularly 
puffed  the  case  for  the  last  six  weeks,  among  all  his 
patients,  friends,  and  acquaintances,  as  one  to  which  he 
was  in  hourly  expectation  day  and  night  of  being  sum- 
moned, in  conjunction  with  Doctor  Parker  Peps. 

44  Well  sir,”  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps  in  a round,  deep, 
sonorous  voice,  muffled  for  the  occasion,  like  the 
knocker;  “do  you  find  that  your  dear  lady  is  at  all 
roused  by  your  visit  ? ” 

44  Stimulated  as  it  were?”  said  the  family  practitioner 
faintly:  bowing  at  the  same  time  to  the  doctor,  as  much 
as  to  say  44  Excuse  my  putting  in  a word,  but  this  is  a 
valuable  connexion.” 

Mr.  Dombey  was  quite  discomfitted  by  the  question. 
He  had  thought  so  little  of  the  patient,  that  he  was  not 
in  a condition  to  answer  it.  He  said  that  it  would  be  a 
satisfaction  to  him,  if  Doctor  Parker  Peps  would  walk 
up -stairs  again. 

44  Good  ! We  must  not  disguise  from  you,  sir,”  said 
Doctor  Parker  Peps,  44  that  there  is  a want  of  power  in 
Her  Grace  the  Duchess — I beg  your  pardon  ; I confound 
names  ; I should  say,  in  your  amiable  lady.  That  there 
zs  a certain  degree  of  languor,  and  a general  absence  of 
elasticity,  which  we  would  rather — not — ” 

44  See,”  interposed  the  family  practitioner  with  another 
inclination  of  the  head. 

44  Quite  so,”  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  44  which  we 
would  rather  not  see.  It  would  appear  that  the  system 
of  Lady  Cankaby— excuse  me  : I should  say  of  Mrs. 
Dombey  : I confuse  the  names  of  cases — ” 

44  So  very  numerous.”  murmured  the  family  practi- 
tioner— 44  can’t  be  expected  I’m  sure— quite  wonderful  iff 
otherwise — Doctor  Parker  Peps’s  west-end  practice — ” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  the  doctor,  4 4 quite  so.  It  woulo 
appear,  I was  observing,  that  the  system  of  our  patient 
has  sustained  a shock  from  which  it  can  only  hope  to 
rally  by  a great  and  strong—” 

“ And  vigorous,”  murmured  the  family  practitioner. 

44  Quite  so,”  assented  the  doctor— 44  and  vigorous  ef- 
fort. Mr.  Pilkins  here,  who  from  his  position  cf  medi- 
cal adviser  in  this  family — no  one  better  qualified  to  fill 
that  position,  I am  sure.” 

44  Oh  ! ” murmured  the  family  practitioner.  44  4 Praise 
from  Sir  Hubert  Stanley  ! ’” 

44  You  are  good  enough, ’’returned  Doctor  Parker  Peps, 
44  to  say  so.  Mr.  Pilkins,  who,  from  his  position,  is  best 
acquainted  with  the  patient’s  constitution  in  its  normal 
state  (an  acquaintance  very  valuable  to  us  in  forming  our 
opinions  on  these  occasions),  is  of  opinion  with  me,  that 


842 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  BICKERS. 


Nature  must  Tbe  called  upon  to  make  a vigorous  effort  In 
this  instance  and  that  if  our  interesting  friend  the 
Countess  of  Dombey— I deg  your  pardon  ! Mrs.  Dombey 
— should  not  be — ” 

“ Able,”  said  the  family  practitioner. 

“ To  make  that  effort  successfully/’  said  Doctor  Parke? 
Peps,  ‘ * then  a crisis  might  arise,  which  we  should  both 
sincerely  deplore.” 

With  that,  they  stood  for  a few  seconds  looking  at  the 
ground.  Then,  on  the  motion — made  in  dumb  show— of 
Doctor  Parker  Peps,  they  went  up-stairs  ; the  family 
practitioner  opening  the  room  door  for  that  distinguished 
professional,  and  following  him  out  with  most  obsequL 
ous  politeness. 

To  record  of  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  was  not  in  his  way 
affected  by  this  intelligence,  would  be  to  do  him  an  in, 
justice.  He  was  not  a man  of  whom  it  could  properly  be 
said  that  he  was  ever  startled  or  shocked  ; but  he  cer- 
tainly had  a sense  within  him,  that  if  his  wife  should 
sicken  and  decay,  he  would  be  very  sorry,  and  that  he 
would  find  a something  gone  from  among  his  plate  and 
furniture,  and  other  household  possessions,  which  was 
well  worth  the  having,  and  could  not  be  lost  without 
sincere  regret.  Though  it  would  be  a cool,  business 
like,  gentlemanly,  self-possessed  regret,  no  doubt. 

His  meditations  on  the  subject  were  soon  interrupted, 
first  by  the  rustling  of  garments  on  the  staircase,  and 
then  by  the  sudden  whisking  into  the  room  of  a lady 
rather  past  the  middle  age  than  otherwise,  but  dressed 
in  a very  juvenile  manner,  particularly  as  to  the  tight- 
ness of  her  boddice,  who,  running  up  to  him  with  a kind 
of  screw  in  her  face  and  carriage,  expressive  of  sup- 
pressed emotion,  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  said 
in  a choking  voice, 

“ My  dear  Paul ! He’s  quite  a Dombey  ! ” 

“ Well,  well !”  returned  her  brother — for  Mr.  Dombey 
was  her  brother — “I  think  he  is  like  the  family.  Don’t 
agitate  yourself,  Louisa.  ’ ’ 

“It’s  very  foolish  of  me,”  said  Louisa,  sitting  down, 
and  taking  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  “ but  he’s — he’s 
such  a perfect  Dombey  ! I never  saw  anything  like  it 
in  my  life  ! ” 

“But  what  is  this  about  Fanny,  herself?”  said  Mr. 
Dombeyr.  “ How  is  Fanny  ? ” 

“My  dear  Paul,”  returned  Louisa,  “ it’s  nothing  what- 
ever. Take  my  word,  it’s  nothing  whatever.  There  is 
exhaustion,  certainly,  but  nothing  like  what  I underwent 
myself,  either  with  George  or  Frederick.  An  effort  is 
necessary.  That’s  all.  If  dear  Fanny  were  a Dombey  ! 
— but  I dare  say  she’ll  make  it ; I have  no  doubt  she’ll 
inake  it.  Knowing  it  to  be  required  of  her,  as  a duty. 


f)OMBEY  AND  SON. 


343 


Df  course  she'll  make  it.  My  dear  Paul,  it’s  very  weak 
and  silly  of  me,  I know,  to  be  so  trembly  and  shaky  from 
head  to  foot ; but  I am  so  very  queer  that  I must  ask 
you  for  a glass  of  wine  and  a morsel  of  that  cake.  I 
thought  I should  have  fallen  out  of  the  staircase  window 
as  I came  down  from  seeing  dear  Fanny,  and  that  tiddy 
ickle  sing.”  These  last  words  originated,  in  a sudden 
vivid  reminiscence  of  the  baby. 

They  were  succeeded  by  a gentle  tap  at  the  door. 

“Mrs.  Chick,” said  a very  bland  female  voice  outside, 
“how  are  you  now,  my  dear  friend  ? ” 

“ My  dear  Paul,”  said  Louisa  in  a low  voice,  as  she 
rose  from  her  seat,  “it's  Miss  Tox.  The  kindest  crea- 
ture i l never  could  have  got  here  without  her  ! Miss 
Tox,  my  brother  Mr.  Dombey.  Paul  my  dear,  my  very 
particular  friend  Miss  Tox.” 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a long  lean 
figure,  wearing  such  a faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to 
have  been  made  in  what  linen-drapers  call  “ fast  colours  ” 
originally,  and  to  have,  by  little  and  little,  washed  out. 
But  for  this  she  might  have  been  described  as  the  very 
pink  of  general  propitiation  and  politeness.  From  a long- 
habit  of  listening  admirably  to  everything  that  was  said 
in  her  presence,  and  looking  at  the  speakers  as  if  she 
were  mentally  engaged  in  taking  off  impressions  of  their 
images  upon  her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the  same  but 
with  life,  her  head  had  quite  settled  on  one  side.  Her 
hands  had  contracted  a spasmodic  habit  of  raising  them- 
selves of  their  own  accord  as  in  involuntary  admiration. 
Her  eyes  were  liable  to  a similar  affection.  She  had  the 
softest  voice  that  ever  was  heard ; and  her  nose,  stu- 
pendously acquiline,  had  a little  knob  in  the  very  centre 
or  keystone  of  the  bridge,  whence  it  tended  downwards 
towards  her  face,  as  in  an  invincible  determination  never 
to  turn  up  at  anything. 

Miss  Tox’s  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel  and  good, 
had  a certain  character  of  angularity  and  scantiness. 
She  was  accustomed  to  wear  odd  weedy  little  flowers  in 
her  bonnets  and  caps.  Strange  grasses  were  sometimes 
perceived  in  her  hair  ; and  it  was  observed  by  the  curious, 
of  all  her  collars,  frills,  tuckers,  wristbands,  and  other  gos- 
samer articles — indeed  of  everything  she  wore  which  had 
two  ends  to  it  intended  to  unite — that  the  two  ends  were 
never  on  good  terms,  and  wouldn’t  quite  meet  without  a 
struggle.  She  had  furry  articles  for  winter  wear,  as  tip- 
pets, boas,  and  muffs,  which  stood  up  on  end  in  a ram- 
pant manner,  and  were  not  at  all  sleek.  She  was  much 
given  to  the  carrying  about  of  small  bags  with  snaps  to 
them,  that  went  off  like  little  pistols  when  they  were 
shut  up  ; and  when  full-dressed,  she  wore  round  her 
neck  the  barrenest  of  lockets,  representing  a fishy  old 


344 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


eye,  witli  no  approach  to  speculation  in  it.  These  and 
other  appearances  of  a similar  nature/had  served  to  prop- 
agate the  opinion,  that  Miss  Tox  was  a lady  of  what  is 
called  a limited  independence,  which  she  turned  to  the 
"best  account.  Possibly  her  mincing  gait  encouraged  the 
belief,  and  suggested  that  her  clipping  a step  of  ordinary 
compass  into  two  or  three,  originated  in  her  habit  of  mak- 
ing the  most  of  everything. 

“I  am  sure/''  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a prodigious  curtsey, 
“ that  to  have  the  honour  of  being  presented  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  is  a distinction  which  I have  long  sought,  but  very 
little  expected  at  the  present  moment.  My  dear  Mrs, 
Chick — may  I say  Louisa  ? ” 

Mrs.  Chick  took  Miss  Tox’s  hand  in  hers,  rested  the 
foot  of  her  wine-glass  upon  it,  repressed  a tear,  and  said 
in  a low  voice  “ Bless  you  ! ” 

“ My  dear  Louisa,  then,”  said  Miss  Tox,  4 4 my  sweet 
friend,  how  are  you  now  ? ” 

“ Better,”  Mrs.  Chick  returned.  “ Take  some  wine. 
“You  have  been  almost  as  anxious  as  I have  been,  and 
must  want  it,  I am  sure.” 

Mr.  Dombey  of  course  officiated. 

“Miss  Tox,  Paul,”  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  still  retaining 
her  hand,  “ knowing  how  much  I have  been  interested 
in  the  anticipation  of  the  event  of  to-day,  has  been  work- 
ing at  a little  gift  for  Fanny,  which  I promised  to  present, 
ft  is  only  a pincushion  for  the  toilet  table,  Paul,  but  I do 
say,  and  will  say,  and  must  say,  that  Miss  Tox  has  very 
prettily  adapted  the  sentiment  to  the  occasion.  I call 
•'  Welcome  little  Dombey * poetry,  myself  ! ” 

“ Is  that  the  device  ? ” inquired  her  brother. 

“ That  is  the  device,”  returned  Louisa. 

“ But  do  me  the  justice  to  remember,  my  dear  Louisa,” 
said  Miss  Tox  in  a tone  of  low  and  earnest  entreaty,  “that 
nothing  but  the— -I  have  some  difficulty  in  expressing  my- 
self—the  dubiousness  of  the  result  would  have  induced 
me  to  take  so  great  a liberty : ‘ Welcome,  Master  Dom- 
bey/ would  have  been  much  more  congenial  to  my  feel- 
ings, as  I am  sure  you  know.  But  the  uncertainty  at- 
tendant on  angelic  strangers,  will,  I hope,  excuse  what 
inust  otherwise  appear  an  unwarrantable  familiarity.” 
Miss  Tox  made  a graceful  bend  as  she  spoke,  in  favour 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  which  that  gentleman  graciously  ac- 
knowledged. Even  the  sort  of  recognition  of  Dombey 
and  Son,  conveyed  in  the  foregoing  conversation,  was  se 
palatable  to  him,  that  his  sister,  Mrs.  Chick — though  he 
affected  to  consider  her  a weak  good-natured  person- 
had  perhaps  more  influence  over  him  than  anybody  else. 

“ Well  ! ” said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a sweet  smile,  “ after 
this,  I forgive  Fanny  everything  ! ” 

It  was  a declaration  in  a Christian  spirit,  and  Mrs.  Chick 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


345 


felt  that  it  did  her  good.  Not  that  she  had  anything  par- 
ticular to  forgive  in  lier  sister-in-law,  nor  indeed  any- 
thing at  all,  except  her  having  married  her  brother — in 
itself  a species  of  audacity — and  her  having,  in  the  course 
of  events,  given  birth  to  a girl  instead  of  a boy : which,  as 
Mrs.  Chick  had  frequently  observed,  was  not  quite  what 
she  had  expected  of  her,  and  was  not  a pleasant  return  for 
all  the  attention  and  distinction  she  had  met  with. 

Mr.  Dombey  being  hastily  summoned  out  of  the  room 
at  this  moment,  the  two  ladies  were  left  alone  together. 
Miss  Tox  immediately  became  spasmodic. 

“ I knew  you  would  admire  my  brother.  I had  told 
you  so  beforehand,  my  dear/'  said  Louisa. 

Miss  Tox’s  hands  and  eyes  expressed  how  much. 

“ And  as  to  his  property,  my  dear  ! ” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  Miss  Tox,  with  deep  feeling. 

“ Im — mense  ! ” 

“ But  his  deportment,  my  dear  Louisa  ! ” said  Miss 
Tox.  “ His  presence  1 His  dignity  ! No  portrait  that 
I have  ever  seen  of  any  one  has  been  half  so  replete  with 
those  qualities.  Something  so  stately,  you  know  : so 
uncompromising  : so  very  wide  across  the  chest : so  up- 
right ! A pecuniary  Duke  of  York,  my  love,  and  noth- 
ing short  of  it  l ” said  Miss  Tox.  “ That’s  what  1 should 
designate  him,” 

“ Why,  my  dear  Paul  ! ” exclaimed  his  sister,  as  he 
returned,  “ you  look  quite  pale  ! There’s  nothing  the 
matter  ? ” 

“ I am  sorry  to  say,  Louisa,  that  they  tell  me  that 
Fanny — ” 

“ Now,  my  dear  Paul,”  returned  his  sister,  rising, 
“ don’t  believe  it.  If  you  have  any  reliance  on  my  ex- 
perience, Paul,  you  may  rest  assured  that  there  is  noth- 
ing wanting  but  an  effort  on  Fanny’s  part.  And  that 
effort,”  she  continued,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  ad- 
justing  her  cap  and  gloves,  in  a business-like  manner, 
“she  must  be  encouraged,  and  really,  if  necessary, 
urged  to  make.  Now,  my  dear  Paul,  come  up -stairs 
with  me.” 

Mr.  Dombey,  who,  besides  being  generally  influenced 
by  his  sister  for  the  reason  already  mentioned,  had 
really  laAL  in  her  as  an  experienced  and  bustling  matron, 
acquiesced  : and  followed  her,  at  once,  to  the  sick  cham- 
ber. 

The  lady  lay  upon  her  bed  as  he  had  left  her,  clasp- 
ing her  little  daughter  to  her  breast.  The  child  clung 
close  about  her,  with  the  same  intensity  as  before,  and 
never  raised  her  head,  or  moved  her  soft  cheek  from  her 
mother’s  face,  or  looked  on  those  who  stood  around,  or 
spoke,  or  moved,  or  shed  a tear. 

“ Bestless  without  the  little  girl,”  the  doctor  whis* 


345 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pei  eel  to  Mr.  Dombey.  “ We  found  it  best  to  have  hef 
in  again.” 

There  was  such  a solemn  stillness  round  the  bed  ; and 
the  two  medical  attendants  seemed  to  look  on  the  impas- 
sive form  with  so  much  compassion  and  so  little  hope, 
that  Mrs.  Chick  was  for  the  moment  diverted  from  her 
purpose.  But  presently  summoning  courage,  and  what 
she  called  presence  of  mind,  she  sat  down  by  the  bed- 
side, and  said  in  the  low  precise  tone  of  one  who  en- 
deavours to  awaken  a sleeper  : 

“ Fanny  ! Fanny  ! ” 

There  was  no  sound  in  answer  but  the  loud  ticking  of 
Mr.  Dombey's  watch  and  Doctor  Parker  Peps's  watch, 
which  seemed  in  the  silence  to  be  running  a race. 

“ Fanny,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,. with  assumed 
lightness,  “here's  Mr.  Dombey  come  to  see  you.  Won't 
you  speak  to  him?  They  want  to  lay  your  little  boy— 
the  baby,  Fanny,  you  know  ; you  have  hardly  seen  him 
yet,  I think — in  bed  ; but  they  can't  till  you  rouse  your- 
self a little.  Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  roused  your- 
self a little  ? Eh?” 

She  bent  her  ear  to  the  bed,  and  listened  : at  the  same 
time  looking  round  at  the  bystanders,  and  holding  tip 
her  linger, 

“ Eh  ? ” she  repeated,  “ what  was  it  you  said,  Fanny  ? 
1 didn't  hear  you.” 

No  word  or  sound  in  answer.  Mr.  Dombey's  watch, 
and  Dr.  Parker  Peps's  watch  seemed  to  be  racing  faster. 

“ Now,  really  Fanny  my  dear,”  said  the  sister-in-law, 
altering  her  position,  and  speaking  less  confidently,  and 
more  earnestly,  in  spite  of  herself,  “ I shall  have  to  be 
quite  cross  with  you,  if  you  don't  rouse  yourself.  It’s 
necessary  for  you  to  make  an  effort,  and  perhaps  a very 
great  and  painful  effort  which  you  are  not  disposed  to 
make  ; but  this  is  a world  of  effort  you  know,  Fanny, 
and  we  must  never  yield,  when  so  much  depends  upon 
us.  Come  ! Try  ! I must  really  scold  you  if  you 
don't ! ” 

The  race  in  the  ensuing  pause  was  fierce  and  furious. 
The  watches  seemed  to  jostle,  and  to  trip  each  other  up. 

“ Fanny  ! ''  said  Louisa,  glancing  round  with  a gather 
ing  alarm.  “ Only  look  at  me.  Only  open  your  eyes  to 
show  me  that  you  hear  and  understand  me  ; will  you  ? 
Good  Heaven,  gentlemen,  what  is  to  be  done  ! ” 

The  two  medical  attendants  exchanged  a look  across 
the  bed  ; and  the  physician,  stooping  down,  whispered 
in  the  child's  ear.  Not  having  understood  the  purport 
of  his  whisper,  the  little  creature  turned  her  perfectly 
colourless  face,  and  deep  dark  eyes  towards  him  ; but 
without  loosening  her  hold  in  the  least. 

The  whisper  was  repeated. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


m 


“Mama  ! ” said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearly  loved,  awakened 
some  show  of  consciousness,  even  at  that  ebb.  For  a 
moment,  the  closed  eyelids  trembled,  and  the  nostril 
quivered,  and  the  faintest  shadow  of  a smile  was  seen. 

“Mama  !”  cried  the  child  sobbing  aloud.  “Oh  dear 
mama  ! oh  dear  mama  ! ” 

The  doctor  gently  brushed  the  scattered  ringlets  of 
the  child,  aside  from  the  face  and  mouth  of  the  mother. 
Alas  how  calm  they  lay  there  ; how  little  breath  there 
was  to  stir  them  ! 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within  her 
arms,  the  mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  un- 
known sea  that  rolls  round  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER  II. 

In  which  Timely  Provision  is  made  for  an  Emergency  that  will  somer 
times  arise  in  the  best-regulated  Families. 

“I  shall  never  cease  to  congratulate  myself,”  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  “ on  having  said,  when  I little  thought  what 
was  in  store  for  us, — really  as  if  I was  inspired  by  some- 
thing,— that  I forgave  poor  dear  Fanny  everything. 
Whatever  happens,  that  must  always  be  a comfort  to 
me  ! ” 

Mrs.  Chick  made  this  impressive  observation  in  the 
drawing-room,  after  having  descended  thither  from  the 
inspection  of  the  mantua-makers  up-stairs,  who  were 
busy  on  the  family  mourning.  She  delivered  it  for  the 
behoof  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  was  a stout  bald  gentleman, 
with  a very  large  face,  and  his  hands  continually  in  his 
pockets,  and  who  had  a tendency  in  his  nature  to  whistle 
and  hum  tunes,  which,  sensible  of  the  indecorum  of 
such  sounds  in  a house  of  grief,  he  was  at  some  pains  to 
repress  at  present. 

“ Don’t  you  over-exert  yourself,  Loo,”  said  Mr.  Chick, 
“ or  you’ll  be  laid  up  with  spasms,  I see.  Right  tol  loor 
rul ! Bless  my  soul,  I forgot ! We’re  here  one  day  and 
gone  the  next ! ” 

Mrs.  Chick  contented  herself  with  a glance  of  reproof, 
and  then  proceeded  with  the  thread  of  her  discourse. 

“I  am  sure,”  she  said,  “ I hope  this  heart-rending  oc- 
currence will  be  a warning  to  all  of  us,  to  accustom  our- 
selves to  rouse  ourselves  and  to  make  efforts  in  time 
where  they’re  requited  of  us.  There’s  a moral  in  every- 
thing, if  we  would  only  avail  ourselves  of  it.  It  will 
be  our  own  faults  if  we  lose  sight  of  this  one.  ” 

Mr.  Chick  invaded  the  grave  silence  which  ensued  on 
this  remark  with  the  singularly  inappropriate  air  of 


348 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


* A cobbler  there  was  ; ’ and  checking  himself,  in  some 
confusion,  observed  that  it  was  undoubtedly  our  own 
faults  if  we  didn't  improve  such  melancholy  occasions 
ks  the  present. 

“ Which  might  be  better  improved,  I should  think, 
Mr.  C.,"  retorted  his  helpmate,  after  a short  pause, 
than  by  the  introduction,  either  of  the  college  hornpipe, 
or  the  equally  unmeaning  and  unfeeling  remark  of  rump- 
te-iddity,  bow- wow- wow  !’’ — which  Mr.  Chick  had  hu 
deed  indulged  in,  under  his  breath,  and  which  Mrs. 
Chick  repeated  in  a tone  of  withering  scorn. 

“Merely  habit,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Mr.  Chick. 

“ Nonsense  ! Habit  !”  returned  his  wife.  “ If  you're 
a rational  being,  don’t  make  such  ridiculous  excuses'. 
Habit ! If  I was  to  get  a habit  (as  you  call  it)  of  wralking 
on  the  ceiling,  like  the  flies,  I should  hear  enough  of  it, 
I dare  say." 

It  appeared  so  probable  that  such  a habit  might  be  atf 
tended  with  some  degree  of  notoriety,  that  Mr.  Chick 
didn’t  venture  to  dispute  the  position. 

“ How’s  the  baby.  Loo?"  asked  Mr.  Chick  : to  change 
the  subject. 

“What  baby  do  you  mean?"  answered  Mrs.  Chick. 
“ I am  sure  the  morning  I have  had,  with  that  diningr 
room  down -stairs  one  mass  of  babies,  no  one  in  their 
senses  would  believe." 

“ One  mass  of  babies  ! " repeated  Mr.  Chick,  staring 
with  an  alarmed  expression  about  him. 

“ It  would  have  occurred  to  most  men,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  “that  poor  dear  Fanny  being  no  more,  it  ber 
comes  necessary  to  provide  a nurse." 

“Oh!  Ah!"  said  Mr.  Chick.  “Toor-rul — such  i? 
life,  I mean.  I hope  you  are  suited,  my  dear." 

“ Indeed  I am  not,"  said  Mrs.  Chick ; “nor  likely  to 
be,  so  far  as  I can  see.  Meanwhile,  of  course,  the  child 
is—" 

“Going  to  the  very  deuce,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  thought- 
fully, “to  be  sure." 

Admonished,  however,  that  he  had  committed  himself, 
by  the  indignation  expressed  in  Mrs.  Chick’s  counte- 
nance at  the  idea  of  a Dombey  going  there  ; and  thinking 
to  atone  for  his  misconduct  by  a bright  suggestion,  he 
added  : 

“ Couldn’t  something  temporary  be  done  with  a tea- 
pot ? " 

If  he  had  meant  to  bring  the  subject  prematurely  to  a 
close,  he  could  not  have  done  it  more  effectually.  After 
looking  at  him  for  some  moments  in  silent  resignation, 
Mrs.  Chick  walked  majestically  to  the  window  and 
peeped  through  the  blind,  attracted  by  the  sound  of 
wheels.  Mr.  Chick,  finding  that  his  destiny  was,  for 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


‘349 


the  time  against  him,  said  no  more,  and  walked  off. 
But  it  was  not  always  thus  with  Mr.  Chick.  He  was 
often  in  the  ascendant  himself,  and  at  those  times  pun- 
ished Louisa  roundly.  In  their  matrimonial  bickerings 
they  were,  upon  the  whole,  a well-matched,  fairly- 
balanced,  give-and-take  couple.  It  would  have  been, 
generally  speaking,  very  difficult  to  have  betted  on  the 
winner.  Often  when  Mr.  Chick  seemed  beaten,  he 
would  suddenly  make  a start,  turn  the  tables,  clatter 
them  about  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Chick,  and  carry  all  before 
him.  Being  liable  himself  to  similiar  unlooked-for 
checks  from  Mrs.  Chick,  their  little  contests  usually 
possessed  a character  of  uncertainty  that  was  very  ani- 
mating. 

Miss  Tox  had  arrived  on  the  wheels  just  now  alluded 
to,  and  came  running  into  the  room  in  a breathless  con- 
dition. 

“My  dear  Louisa/'  said  Miss  Tox,  “is  the  vacancy 
still  unsupplied?'' 

“You  good  soul,  yes/'  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

“Then,  my  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  “I  hope 
and  believe — but  in  one  moment,  my  dear,  I'll  introduce 
the  party." 

Running  down -stairs  again  as  fast  as  she  had  run  up. 
Miss  Tox  got  the  party  out  of  the  hackney-coach,  and 
soon  returned  with  it  under  convoy. 

It  then  appeared  that  she  had  used  the  word  not  in 
its  legal  or  business  acceptation,  when  it  merely  ex- 
presses an  individual,  but  as  a noun  of  multitude,  or 
signifying  many  : for  Miss  Tox  escorted  a plump  rosy- 
cheeked  wholesome  apple-faced  young  woman,  with  an 
infant  in  her  arms  ; a younger  woman  not  so  plump,  but 
apple-faced,  also,  who  led  a plump  and  apple-faced  chil(J 
in  each  hand  ; another  pi  amp  and  also  apple-faced  boy 
who  walked  by  himself  ; and  finally,  a plump  and 
apple-faced  man,  who  carried  in  his  arms  another  plump 
and  apple-faced  boy,  whom  he  stood  down  on  the  floor, 
and  admonished  in  a husky  whisper  to  “kitch  hold  of 
his  brother  Johnny." 

“My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  “knowing  your 
great  anxiety,  and  wishing  to  relieve  it,  1 posted  off  my- 
self to  the  Queen  Charlotte's  Royal  Married  Females, 
which  you  had  forgot,  and  put  the  question,  Was  there 
anybody  there  that  they  thought  would  suit?  No,  they 
said,  there  was  not.  When  they  gave  me  that  answer, 
^ do  assure  you,  my  dear,  I was  almost  driven  to  de- 
spair on  your  account.  But  it  did  so  happen,  that  one 
of  the  Royal  Married  Females,  hearing  the  inquiry,  re- 
minded the  matron  of  another  who  had  gone  to  her  own 
home,  and  who,  she  said,  would  in  ail  likelihood  be  most 
satisfactory.  The  moment  I heard  this,  and  had  it  cor 


850 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


roborated  by  the  matron— excellent  references  and  un- 
impeachable character— I got  the  address,  my  dear,  and 
posted  off  again/’ 

“ Like  the  dear  good  Tox,  you  are  ! ” said  Louisa. 

“ Not  at  all,”  returned  Miss  Tox.  “ Don’t  say  so. 
Arriving  at  the  house  (the  cleanest  place,  my  dear  ! You 
might  eat  your  dinner  off  the  floor),  I found  the  whole 
family  sitting  at  table  ; and  feeling  that  no  account  of 
them  could  be  half  so  comfortable  to  you  and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  as  the  sight  of  them  all  together,  I brought  them  all 
away.  This  gentleman,”  said  Miss  Tox,  pointing  out 
the  apple- faced  man,  “ is  the  father.  Will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  come  a little  forward,  sir  ? ” 

The  apple-faced  man  having  sheepishly  complied  with 
this  request,  stood  chuckling  and  grinning  m a front 
row. 

“ This  is  his  wife,  of  course,”  said  Miss  Tox,  singling 
out  the  young  woman  with  the  baby.  “ How  do  you 
do,  Polly?” 

“ I’m  pretty  well,  I thank  you,  ma’am,”  said  Polly, 

By  way  of  bringing  her  out  dexterously.  Miss  Tox  had 
made  the  inquiry  as  in  condescension  to  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, whom  she  hadn’t  seen  for  a fortnight  or  so. 

“I’m  glad  to  hear  it,”  said  Miss  Tox.  “The  other 
young  woman  is  her  unmarried  sister  who  lives  with 
them,  and  would  take  care  of  her  children.  Her  name’s 
Jemima.  How  do  you  do,  Jemima?” 

“ I’m  pretty  well,  I thank  you,  ma’am,”  returned  Je- 
mima. 

“I’m  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,”  said  Miss  Tox. 
“ I hope  you’ll  keep  so.  Five  children.  Youngest  six 
weeks.  The  fine  little  boy  with  the  blister  on  his  nose 
is  the  eldest.  The  blister,  I believe,”  said  Miss  Tox, 
looking  round  upon  the  family,  “is  not  constitutional, 
but  accidental  ? ” 

The  apple-faced  man  was  understood  to  growl,  “ Flat 
iron.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Miss  Tox,  “did 
you  ? — ” 

“ Flat  iron,”  he  repeated. 

“ Oh  yes,”  said  Miss  Tox.  “ Yes  ! Quite  true.  I 
forgot.  The  little  creature,  in  his  mother’s  absence, 
smelt  a warm  flat  iron.  You’re  quite  right,  sir.  You 
were  going  to  have  the  goodness  to  inform  me,  when  we 
arrived  at  the  door,  that  you  were  by  trade,  a — ” 

“Stoker,”  said  the  man. 

“ A choker  ! ” said  Miss  Tox,  quite  aghast. 

“ Stoker,”  said  the  man.  “ Steam  engine.” 

“Oli-h  ! Yes  !”  returned  Miss  Tox,  looking  thought- 
fully at  him,  and  seeming  still  to  have  but  a very  imper- 
fect understanding  of  his  meaning. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


351 


<e  And  how  do  you  like  it,  sir  ? ” 

“ Which,  mum  ? ” said  the  man. 

“That,”  replied  Miss  Tox.  “ Your  trade.’' 

“Oh  ! Pretty  well,  mum.  The  ashes  sometimes  gets 
in  here;”  touching  his  chest:  “ and  makes  a man 
speak  gruff,  as  at  the  present  time.  But  it  is  ashes, 
mum,  not  crustiness.” 

Miss  Tox  seemed  to  be  so  little  enlightened  by  this 
i*eply,  as  to  find  a difficulty  in  pursuing  the  subject. 
But  Mrs.  Chick  relieved  her,  by  entering  into  a close 
private  examination  of  Polly,  her  children,  her  marriage 
certificate,  testimonials,  and  so  forth.  Polly  coming  out 
unscathed  from  this  ordeal,  Mrs.  Chick  withdrew  with 
her  report  to  her  brother’s  room,  and  as  an  emphatic 
comment  on  it,  and  corroboration  of  it,  carried  the  two 
rosiest  little  Toodles  with  her,  Tnodie  being  the  family 
name  of  the  apple-faced  family. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  remained  in  his  own  apartment  since 
the  death  of  his  wife,  absorbed  in  visions  of  the  youth, 
education,  and  destination  of  his  baby  son.  Something 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  cool  heart,  colder  and  heavier 
than  its  ordinary  load  ; but  it  was  more  a sense  of  the 
child’s  loss  than  his  own,  awakening  within  him  an 
almost  angry  sorrow.  That  the  life  and  progress  on 
which  he  built  such  hopes,  should  be  endangered  in  the 
outset  by  so  mean  a want  ; that  Dombey  and  Son  should 
be  tottering  for  a nurse,  was  a sore  humiliation.  And 
yet  in  his  pride  and  jealousy,  he  viewed  with  so  much 
bitterness  the  thought  of  being  dependent  for  the  very 
first  step  towards  the  accomplishment  of  his  soul’s  desire, 
on  a hired  serving- woman  who  would  be  to  the  child, 
for  the  time,  all  that  even  his  alliance  could  have  made 
his  own  wife,  that  in  every  new  rejection  of  a candidate 
he  felt  a secret  pleasure.  The  time  had  now  come,  how- 
ever, when  he  could  no  longer  be  divided  between  those 
two  sets  of  feelings.  The  less  so,  as  there^seemed  to  be 
no  flaw  in  the  title  of  Polly  Toodle  after  his  sister  had 
set  it  forth,  with  many  commendations  on  the  indefatiga* 
ble  friendship  of  Miss  Tox. 

“These  children  look  healthy,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
“But  to  think  of  their  some  day  claiming  a sort  of  rela* 
tionship  to  Paul  ! Take  them  away,  Louisa  ! Let  m$ 
see  this  woman  and  her  husband.” 

Mrs.  Chick  bore  off  the  tender  pair  of  Toodles,  and 
presently  returned  with  the  tougher  couple  whose  pres* 
ence  her  brother  had  commanded. 

“ My  good  woman,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  round 
in  his  easy-chair,  as  one  piece,  and  not  as  a man  with 
limbs  and  joints,  “ I understand  you  are  poor,  and  wish 
to  earn  money  by  nursing  the  little  boy,  my  son,  who 
has  been  so  prematurely  deprived  of  what  can  never  be 


852 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


replaced.  I liave  no  objection  to  your  adding  to  the  com- 
forts of  your  family  by  that  means.  So  far  as  I can  tell, 
you  seem  to  be  a deserving  object.  But  I must  impose 
one  or  two  conditions  on  you,  before  you  enter  my  bouse 
in  that  capacity.  While  you  are  here,  I must  stipulate 
that  you  are  always  known  as — say  as  Richards — an 
ordinary  name  and  convenient.  Have  you  any  objection  to 
be  known  as  Richards?  You  had  better  consult  your 
husband/ ’ 

.As  the  husband  did  nothing  but  chuckle  and  grin,  and 
continually  draw  his  right  hand  across  his  mouth,  moist- 
ening the  palm,  Mrs.  Toodle  after  nudging  him  twice 
or  thrice  in  vain,  dropped  a curtsey  and  replied  “ that 
perhaps  if  she  was  to  be  called  out  of  her  name,  it  would 
be  considered  in  the  wages.” 

£‘  Oh,  of  course,”  said  Mr.  Dombey.  “ I desire  to 
make  it  a question  of  wages,  altogether.  Now,  Richards, 
if  you  nurse  my  bereaved  child,  I wish  you  to  remember 
this  always.  You  will  receive  a liberal  stipend  in  return 
for  the  discharge  of  certain  duties,  in  the  performance 
of  which,  I wish  you  to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as 
possible.  When  those  duties  cease  to  be  required  and 
rendered,  and  the  stipend  ceases  to  be  paid,  there  is  an 
end  of  all  relations  between  us.  Do  you  understand  me  ? ” 

Mrs.  Toodle  seemed  doubtful  about  it ; and  as  to  Too- 
dle himself,  he  had  evidently  no  doubt  whatever,  that 
he  was  all  abroad. 

“You  have  children  of  your  own,”  said  Mr.  Dombey* 
“ It  is  not  at  all  in  this  bargain  that  you  need  become 
attached  to  my  child,  or  that  my  child  need  become  at- 
tached to  you.  I don't  expect  or  desire  anything  of  the 
kind.  Quite  the  reverse.  When  you  go  away  from 
here,  you  will  have  concluded  what  is  a mere  matter  of 
bargain  and  sale,  hiring  and  letting  : and  will  stay  away 
The  child  will  cease  to  remember  you  ; and  you  will 
cease,  if  you  please  to  remember  the  child.” 

Mrs.  Toodle,  with  a little  more  colour  in  her  cheeks 
than  she  had  had  before,  said  “she  hoped  she  knew  he? 
place.” 

“I  hope  you  do,  Richards/’  said  Mr.  Dombey.  “I 
have  no  doubt  you  know  it  very  well.  Indeed  it  is  so 
plain  and  obvious  that  it  could  hardly  be  otherwise. 
Louisa,  my  dear,  arrange  with  Richards  about  money, 
and  let  her  have  it  when  and  how  she  pleases.  Mr- 
what’s-your-name,  a word  with  you,  if  you  please  ! ” 

Thus  arrested  on  the  threshold  as  he  was  follow]^ 
his  wife  out  of  the  room,  Toodle  returned  and  confronted 
Mr.  Dombey  alone.  He  was  a strong,  loose,  round- 
shouldered,  shuffling,  shaggy  fellow,  on  whom  his  clothes 
sat  negligently  : with  a good  deal  of  hair  and  whisker, 
deepened  in  its  natural  tint,  perhaps,  by  ^_aoke  and  eoaD 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


353 


dust  : hard  knotty  hands  : and  a square  forehead,  as 
coarse  in  grain  as  the  bark  of  an  oak.  A thorough  con- 
trast in  all  respects  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  one  of 
those  close-shaved  close-cut  monied  gentlemen  who  are 
glossy  and  crisp  like  new  bank  notes,  and  who  seem 
to  be  artificially  braced  and  tightened  as  by  the  stimu- 
lating action  of  golden  shower-baths. 

44  You  have  a son,  I believe  ? ” said  Mr.  Dombey. 

44  Four  on  'em,  sir.  Four  hims  and  a her.  All 
alive  ! ” 

44  Why,  it’s  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep  them  ! ’* 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

44 1 couldn’t  hardly  afford  but  one  thin  * m the  world 
less,  sir.” 

“ What  is  that  ?” 

44  To  lose  ’em,  sir.” 

44  Can  you  read  ? ” asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

44  Why,  not  partick’ler,  sir.” 

44  Write  ? ” 

44  With  chalk,  sir.” 

44  With  anything?” 

44 1 could  make  shift  to  chalk  a little  bit,  I think,  if  I 
was  put  to  it,”  said  Toodle,  after  some  reflection. 

44  And  yet,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  44  you  are  two  or  three 
and  thirty,  I suppose  ? ” 

44  Thereabouts,  I suppose,  sir,”  answered  Toodle,  after 
more  reflection. 

44  Then  why  don’t  you  learn  ? ” asked  Mr,  Dombe}\ 

64  So  I’m  a going  to,  sir.  One  of  my  little  boys  is  a 
going  to  learn  me,  when  he’s  old  enough,  and  been  to 
school  himself.” 

44  Well  !”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  looking  at  him  at- 
tentively and  with  no  great  favour,  as  he  stood  gazing 
around  the  room  (principally  the  ceiling)  and  still  draw- 
ing his  hand  across  and  across  his  mouth.*  4 4 You  heard 
what  I said  to  your  wife  just  now  ? ” 

44  Polly  heerd  it,”  said  Toodle,  jerking  his  hat  over 
his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  with  an  air  of 
perfect  confidence  in  his  better  half.  44  It’s  all  right.” 

44  As  you  appear  to  leave  everything  to  her,”  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  frustrated  in  his  intention  of  impressing  his 
views  still  more  distinctly  on  the  husband,  as  the 
stronger  character,  44 1 suppose  it  is  of  no  use  my  saying 
anything  to  you.” 

44  Not  a bit,”  said  Toodle.  44  Polly  heerd  it.  She's 
awake,  sir.” 

44 1 won’t  detain  you  any  longer  then,”  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  disappointed.  44  Where  have  you  worked  all 
your  life  ?” 

44  Mostly  underground,  sir,  till  I got  married.  I come 


354 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  the  level  then.  Fm  a going  on  one  of  these  here  rail- 
roads when  they  comes  into  full  play.” 

As  the  last  straw  breaks  the  laden  camel's  back,  this 
piece  of  underground  information  crushed  the  sinking 
spirits  of  Mr.  Dombey.  He  motioned  his  child's  foster- 
father  to  the  door,  who  departed  by  no  means  unwilling- 
ly : and  then  turning  the  key,  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  in  solitary  wretchedness.  For  all  his  starched  im- 
penetrable dignity  and  composure,  he  wiped  blinding 
tears  from  his  eyes  as  he  did  so  : and  often  said,  with  an 
emotion  of  which  he  w^ould  not,  for  the  world,  have  had 
a witness,  “Poor  little  fellow  ! ” 

It  may  have  been  characteristic  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride 
that  he  pitied  himself  through  the  child.  Not  poor  me. 
Not  poor  widower,  confiding  by  constraint  in  the  wife  of 
an  ignorant  Hind  who  had  been  working  tf  mostly  under- 
ground ' all  his  life,  and  yet  at  whose  door  Death  has 
never  knocked,  and  at  whose  poor  table  four  sons  daily 
git — but  poor  little  fellow  ! 

Those  words  being  on  his  lips,  it  occurred  to  him — and 
it  is  an  instance  of  the  strong  attraction  with  which  his 
hopes  and  fears  and  all  his  thoughts  were  tending  to  one 
centre — that  a great  temptation  was  being  placed  in  this 
woman's  way.  Her  infant  was  a boy  too.  Now,  would 
it  be  possible  for  her  to  change  them  ? 

Though  he  was  soon  satisfied  that  he  had  dismissed 
the  idea  as  romantic  and  unlikely— though  possible, 
there  was  no  denying— he  could  not  help  pursuing  it  ss 
far  as  to  entertain  within  himself  a picture  of  what  his 
condition  would  be,  if  he  should  discover  such  an  im- 
posture when  he  was  grown  old.  Whether  a man  so 
situated,  would  be  able  to  pluck  away  the  result  of  so 
many  years  of  usage,  confidence,  and  belief,  from  the 
imposture,  and  endow  a stranger  with  it  ? 

As  his  unusual  emotion  subsided,  these  misgivings 
gradually  melted  away,  though  so  much  of  their  shadow 
remained  behind,  that  he  was  constant  in  his  resolution 
to  look  closely  after  Richards  himself,  without  appearing 
to  do  so.  Being  now  in  an  easier  frame  of  mind,  he  re- 
garded the  woman's  station  as  rather  an  advantageous 
circumstance  than  otherwise,  by  placing,  in  itself,  a 
broad  distance  between  her  and  the  child,  and  rendering 
their  separation  easy  and  natural. 

Meanwhile  terms'  were  ratified  and  agreed  upon  be- 
tween Mrs.  Chick  and  Richards,  with  the  assistance  of 
Miss  Tox  ; and  Richards  being  with  much  ceremony  in- 
vested with  the  Dombey  baby,  as  if  it  were  an  Order,  re- 
signed her  own,  with  many  tears  and  kisses  to  Jemima. 
Glasses  of  wine  were  then  produced,  to  sustain  the 
drooping  spirits  of  the  family. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


855 


£*  You'll  take  a glass  yourself,  sir,  won't  you?"  said 
Miss  Tos,  as  Toodle  appeared. 

“Thankee,  mum,”  said  Toodle,  * 4 since  you  are  sup- 
pressing.” 

“ And  you’re  very  glad  to  leave  your  dear  good  wife 
in  such  a comfortable  home,  ain't  you,  sir?"  said  Miss 
Tox,  nodding  and  winking  at  him  stealthily,, 

“ No,  mum,"  said  Toodle.  “ Here's  wishing  of  her 
back  agin." 

Polly  cried  more  than  ever  at  this.  So  Mrs.  Chick, 
who  had  her  matronly  apprehension  that  this  indulgence 
in  grief  might  be  prejudicial  to  the  little  Dombey 
(“  acid,  indeed,"  she  whispered  Miss  Tox)  hastened  to 
the  rescue. 

‘‘Your  little  child  will  thrive  charmingly  with  your 
sister  Jemima,  Richards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ; “ and  you 
have  only  to  make  an  effort — this  is  a world  of  effort,  you 
know,  Richards — to  be  very  happy  indeed.  You  have 
been  already  measured  for  your  mourning,  haven't  you, 
Richards  ? " 

“ Ye — es,  ma’am,"  sobbed  Polly. 

“ And  it’ll  fit  beautifully,  I know,”  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
f for  the  same  young  person  has  made  me  many  dresses. 
The  very  best  materials,  too  !" 

“Lor,  you'll  be  so  smart,"  said  Miss  Tox,  “that  your 
husband  won't  know  you  ; will  you,  sir,-?  " 

“I  should  know  her,  said  Toodle,  gruffly,  “ any  nows 
and  anywheres." 

Toodle  was  evidently  not  to  be  bought  over. 

“As  to  living,  Richards,  you  know,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Chick,  “ why  the  very  best  of  everything  will  be  at  your 
disposal.  You  will  order  your  little  dinner  every  day  ; 
and  anything  you  take  a fancy  to,  I’m  sure  will  be  as 
readily  provided  as  if  you  were  a lady." 

“Yes,  to  be  sure!"  said  Miss  Tox,  keeping  up  the 
ball  with  great  sympathy.  “ And  as  to  porter  !—  quite 
unlimited,  will  it  not,  Louisa?" 

“ Oh,  certainly  ! " returned  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  same 
tone.  “ With  a little  abstinence,  you  know,  my  dear,  in 
point  of  vegetables." 

“ And  pickles,  perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

“With  such  exceptions,"  said  Louisa,  “ she’ll  consult 
her  choice  entirely,  and  be  under  no  restraint  at  all,  my 
love." 

“ And  then,  of  course,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
“however  fond  she  is  of  her  own  dear  little  child — and 
I'm  sure,  Louisa,  you  don’t  blame  her  for  being  fond  o# 
it?" 

“ Oh  no  ! " cried  Mrs.  Chick,  benignantly. 

“ Still,"  resumed  Miss  Tox,  “ she  naturally  must  hs 
interested  in  her  young  charge,  and  must  consider  it  a 


358 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


privilege  to  see  a little  cherub  closely  connected  with 
the  superior  classes,  gradually  unfolding  itself  from  day- 
today  at  one  common  fountain.  Is  it  not  so,  Louisa?” 

“ Most  undoubtedly  ! ” said  Mrs.  Chick.  “You  see, 
my  love,  she's  already  quite  contented  and  comfortable, 
and  means  to  say  good-bye  to  her  sister  Jemima  and  her 
little  pets,  and  her  good  honest  husband  with  a light 
heart  and  a smile  • don't  she.  my  dear  3 ” 

**  Oh  yes  ! ” cried  Miss  Tox.  “To  be  sure  she  does  ! ” 

Notwithstanding  which,  however,  poor  Polly  embraced 
them  all  round  in  great  distress,  and  finally  ran  away  to 
avoid  any  more  particular  leave-taking  between  herself 
and  the  children.  But  the  stratagem  hardly  succeeded 
as  well  as  it  deserved  ; for  the  smallest  boy  but  one 
divining  her  intent,  immediately  began  swarming  up- 
stairs after  her— if  that  word  of  doubtful  etymology  be 
admissible — on  his  arms  and  legs  ; while  the  eldest 
(known  in  the  family  by  the  name  of  Biler,  in  remem- 
brance of  the  steam-engine)  beat  a demoniacal  tattoo 
with  his  boots,  expressive  of  grief  ; in  which  he  was 
joined  by  the  rest  of  the  family. 

A quantity  of  oranges  and  halfpence,  thrust  indiscrim- 
inately on  each  young  Toodle,  checked  the  first  violence 
of  their  regret,  and  the  family  were  speedily  transported 
to  their  own  home,  by  means  of  the  hackney-coach  kept 
in  waiting  for  that  purpose.  The  children,  under  the 
guardianship  of  Jemima,  blocked  up  the  window,  and 
dropped  out  oranges  and  halfpence  all  the  way  along. 
Mr.  Toodle  himself  preferred  to  ride  behind  among 
the  spikes,  as  being  the  mode  of  conveyance  to  which 
he  was  best  accustomed. 


CHAPTER  III. 

In  which  Mr.  Dombey , as  a Man  and  a Father , is  seen  at  the  Read  of 
the  Home- Department. 

The  funeral  of  the  deceased  lady  having  been  “ per- 
formed ” to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  undertaker,  as 
well  as  of  the  neighbourhood  at  large,  which  is  generally 
disposed  to  be  captious  on  such  a point,  and  is  prone  to 
take  offence  at  any  omissions  or  shortcomings  in  the 
ceremonies,  the  various  members  of  Mr.  .Dombey’s 
household  subsided  into  their  several  places  in  the  do- 
mestic system.  That  small  world,  like  the  great  one 
out  of  doors,  had  the  capacity  of  easily  forgetting  its 
dead  ; and  when  the  cook  had  said  she  was  a quiet-tem- 
pered lady,  and  the  house -keeper  said  it  was  the  common 
lot,  and  the  butler,  had  said  wlio’d  have  thought  it,  and 
the  housemaid  had  said  she  couldn’t  hardly  believe  it„ 


DGMBEY  AND  SON. 


857 


and  tlie  footman  had  said  it  seemed  exactly  ]ike  a dream, 
they  had  quite  worn  the  subject  out,  and  began  to  think 
their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty  too. 

On  Richards,  who  was  established  up- stairs  in  a state 
of  honourable  captivity,  the  dawn  of  her  new  life  seemed 
to  break  cold  and  grey.  Mr.  Dombey’s  house  was  a large 
one,  on  the  shady  side  of  a tall,  dark,  dreadfully  genteel 
street  in  the  region  between  Portland-place  and  Bryan- 
stone-square.  It  was  a corner  house,  with  great  wide 
areas  containing  cellars  frowned  upon  by  barred  win- 
dows, and  leered  at  by  crooked-eyed  doors  leading  to 
dustbins.  It  was  a house  of  dismal  state,  with  a circu- 
lar back  to  it,  containing  a whole  suite  of  drawing-rooms 
looking  upon  a gravelled  yard,  where  two  gaunt  trees, 
with  blackened  trunks  and  branches,  rattled  rather  than 
rustled,  their  leaves  were  so  smoke-dried.  The  summer 
sun  was  never  on  the  street  but  in  the  morning  about 
breakfast  time,  when  it  came  with  the  water-carts  and  the 
the  old-clothes  men,  and  the  people  with  geraniums,  and 
umbrella-mender,  and  the  man  who  trilled  the  little  bell 
of  the  Dutch  clock  as  he  went  along.  It  was  soon  gone 
again  to  return  no  more  that  day  ; and  the  bands  of 
music  and  the  straggling  Punch’s  shows  going  after  it, 
left  it  a prey  to  the  most  dismal  of  organs,  and  white 
mice  ; with  now  and  then  a porcupine,  to  vary  the  en- 
tertainments ; until  the  butlers  whose  families  were 
dining  out,  began  to  stand  at  the  house  doors  in  the  twi- 
light, and  the  lamp-lighter  made  his  nightly  failure  in 
attempting  to  brighten  up  the  street  with  gas. 

It  was  as  blank  a house  inside  as  outside.  When  the 
funeral  was  over,  Mr.  Dombey  ordered  the  furniture  to 
be  covered  up — perhaps  to  preserve  it  for  the  son  with 
whom  his  plans  were  all  associated — and  the  rooms  to 
be  ungarnislied,  saving  such  as  he  retained  for  himself 
on  the  ground  floor.  Accordingly,  mysterious  shapes 
were  made  of  tables  and  chairs,  heaped  together  in  the 
middle  of  rooms,  and  covered  over  with  great  winding- 
sheets.  Bell-handles,  window-blinds,  and  looking- 
glasses,  being  papered  up  in  journals,  daily  and  weekly, 
obtruded  fragmentary  accounts  of  deaths  andT  dreadful 
murders.  Every  chandelier  or  lustre,  muffled  in  holland, 
looked  like  a monstrous  tear  depending  from  the  ceil- 
ing’s eye.  Odours,  as  from  vaults  and  damp  places, 
came  out  of  the  chimneys.  The  dead  and  buried  lady 
was  awful  in  a picture  frame  of  ghastly  bandages. 
Every  gust  of  wind  that  rose,  brought  eddying  round 
the  corner  from  the  neighbouring  mews,  some  fragments 
of  the  straw  that  had  been  strewn  before  the  house  when 
she  was  ill,  mildewed  remains  of  which  were  still  cleaving 
to  the  neighbourhood  ; and  these,  being  always  drawn 
by  some  invisible  attraction  to  the  threshold  of  the  dirty 


858 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS- 


house  to  let  immediately  opposite,  addressed  a dismal 
eloquence  to  Mr.  Dombey's  windows. 

The  apartments  which  Mr.  Bombey  reserved  for  his 
own  inhabiting,  were  attainable  from  the  hall,  and  con- 
sisted of  a sitting-room  ; a library,  which  was  in  fact  a 
dressing-room,  so  that  the  smell  of  hot-pressed  paper, 
vellum,  morocco,  and  Russia  leather,  contended  in  it  with 
the  smell  of  divers  pairs  of  boots ; and  a kind  of  conser- 
vatory or  little  glass  breakfast-room  beyond,  commanding 
a prospect  of  the  trees  before  mentioned,  and  generally 
speaking  of  a few  prowling  cats.  These  three  rooms 
opened  upon  one  another.  In  the  morning,  when  Mr. 
Bombey  was  at  his  breakfast  in  one  or  other  of  the  two 
first  mentioned  of  them,  as  well  as  in  the  afternoon  when 
he  came  home  to  dinner,  a bell  was  rung  for  Richards  to 
repair  to  this  glass  chamber,  and  there  walk  to  and  fro 
with  her  young  charge.  From  the  glimpses  she  caught 
of  Mr.  Dombey  at  these  times,  sitting  in  the  dark  dis- 
tance, looking  out  towards  the  infant  from  among  the 
dark  heavy  furniture — the  house  had  been  inhabited  for 
years  by  his  father,  and  in  many  of  its  appointments  was 
old-fashioned  and  grim — she  began  to  entertain  ideas  of 
him  in  his  solitary  state,  as  if  he  were  a lone  prisoner  in 
a cell,  or  a strange  apparition  that  was  not  to  be  accost- 
ed or  understood. 

Little  Paul  Bombey’s  foster-mother  had  led  this  lifts 
herself  and  had  carried  little  Paul  through  it  for  som© 
weeks  ; and  had  returned  up- stairs  one  day  from  a mel- 
ancholy saunter  through  the  dreary  rooms  of  state  (she 
never  wTent  out  without  Mrs.  Chick,  who  called  on  fin© 
mornings,  usually  accompanied  by  Miss  Tox,  to  take  her 
and  Baby  for  an  airing — or  in  other  words,  to  march 
them  gravely  up  and  down  the  pavement ; like  a walk- 
ing funeral) ; when,  as  she  was  sitting  in  her  own  room, 
the  door  was  slowly  and  quietly  opened,  and  a dark-eyed 
little  girl  looked  in. 

" IPs  Miss  Florence  come  home  from  her  aunt’s,  no 
doubt,”  thought  Richards,  who  had  never  seen  the  child 
before.  " Hope  I see  you  well,  miss.” 

"Is  that  my  brother?”  asked  the  child,  pointing  to 
the  baby. 

"Yes,  my  pretty,”  answered  Richards.  "Come  and 
kiss  him.” 

But  the  child,  instead  of  advancing,  looked  her  ear- 
nestly in  the  face,  and  said  : 

" What  have  you  done  with  my  Mama  ? ” 

" Lord  bless  the  little  creeter  ! ” cried  Richards,  " what 
a sad  question  ! I done  ? Nothing,  miss.” 

" What  have  they  done  with  my  Mama?”  inquired 
the  child. 

"I  never  saw  such  a melting  thing  in  all  my  life  1" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


859 


said  Richards,  who  naturally  substituted  for  this  child 
one  of  her  own,  inquiring  for  herself  in  like  circum- 
stances. “Come  nearer  here,  my  dear  miss  ! Don’t  be 
afraid  of  me.” 

“ I am  not  afraid  of  you,”  said  the  child,  drawing 
nearer.  “But  I want  to  know  what  they  have  don© 
with  my  Mama.” 

“My  darling,”  said  Richards,  “you  wear  that  pretty 
black  frock  in  remembrance  of  your  Mama.” 

“ I can  remember  my  Mama,”  returned  the  child,  with 
tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  “ in  any  frock.” 

“ But  people  put  on  black,  to  remember  people  when 
they’re  gone.” 

“ Where  gone?”  asked  the  child. 

“Come  and  sit  down  by  me,”  said  Richards,  “ and  I’ll 
tell  you  a story.” 

With  a quick  perception  that  it  was  intended  to  relate 
to  what  she  had  asked,  little  Florence  laid  aside  th® 
bonnet  she  had  held  in  her  hand  until  now,  and  sat 
down  on  a stool  at  the  nurse’s  feet,  looking  up  into  her 
face. 

“ Once  upon  a time,”  said  Richards,  “ there  was  a 
lady — a very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly 
loved  her.” 

“ A very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly 
loved  her,”  repeated  the  child. 

“ Who,  when  God  thought  it  right  that  it  should  be 
so,  was  taken  ill  and  died.” 

The  child  shuddered. 

“ Died,  never  to  be  seen  again  by  any  one  on  earth, 
and  was  buried  in  the  ground  where  the  trees  grow.” 

“ The  cold  ground,”  said  the  child  shuddering  again. 

“ No  ! The  warm  ground,”  returned  Polly,  seizing 
her  advantage,  “ where  the  ugly  little  seeds  turn  into 
beautiful  flowers,  and  into  grass,  and  corn,  and  I don’t 
know  what  all  besides.  Where  good  people  turn  into 
bright  angels,  and  fly  away  to  Heaven  ! ” 

The  child,  who  had  drooped  her  head,  raised  it  again, 
and  sat  looking  at  her  intently. 

“ So  ; let  me  see,”  said  Polly,  not  a little  flurried  be- 
tween this  earnest  scrutiny,  her  desire  to  comfort  the 
child,  her  sudden  success,  and  her  very  slight  confi- 
dence in  her  own  powers.  “ So,  when  this  lady  died, 
wherever  they  took  her,  or  wherever  they  put  her,  she 
went  to  God  ! and  she  prayed  to  Him,  this  lady  did,” 
said  Polly,  affecting  herself  beyond  measure  ; being 
heartily  in  earnest,  “to  teach  her  little  daughter  to  be 
sure  of  that  in  her  heart : and  to  know  that  she  was 
happy  there  and  loved  her  still  : and  to  hope  and  try— 
Oh  all  her  life — to  meet  her  there  one  day,  never,  never, 
never  to  part  any  more.” 


880 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ It  was  my  Mama  ! 99  exclaimed  tlie  child,  springing 
up,  and  clasping  her  round  the  neck. 

“And  the  child’s  heart,”  said  Polly,  drawing  her  to 
her  breast : “the  little  daughter’s  heart  was  so  full  of 
the  truth  of  this,  that  even  when  she  heard  it  from  a 
strange  nurse  that  couldn’t  tell  it  right,  but  was  a poor 
mother  herself  and  that  was  all,  she  found  a comfort  in 
it — didn’t  feel  so  lonely — sobbed  and  cried  upon  her 
bosom— took  kindly  to  the  baby  lying  in  her  lap — and — 
there,  there,  there  ! ” said  Polly  smoothing  the  child’s 
curls  and  dropping  tears  upon  them.  “ There, poor  dear ! ” 

“ Oh  well,  Miss  Floy  ! And  won’t  your  Pa  be  angry 
neither ! ” cried  a quick  voice  at  the  door,  proceeding 
from  a short,  brown,  womanly  girl  of  fourteen,  with  a 
little  snub  nose  and  black  eyes  like  jet  beads.  “ When 
it  was  ’tickerlerly  given  out  that  you  wTasn’t  to  go  and 
worrit  the  wet  nurse.” 

“ She  don’t  worry  me,”  was  the  surprised  rejoinder  of 
Polly.  “ I am  very  fond  of  children.” 

“Oh!  but  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Richards,  that 
don’t  matter  you  know,”  returned  the  black-eyed  girl, 
who  was  so  desperately  sharp  and  biting  that  she  seemed 
to  make  one’s  eyes  water.  “I  may  be  very  fond  of 
penny  winkles,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  it  don’t  follow  that  I’m 
to  have  ’em  for  tea.” 

“ Well,  it  don’t  matter,”  said  Polly. 

“ Oh  thankee,  Mrs.  Richards,  don’t  it ! ” returned  the 
sharp  girl.  “ Remembering,  however,  if  you’ll  be  so 
good,  that  Miss  Floy’s  under  my  charge,  and  Master 
Paul’s  under  your’iL” 

“ But  still  we  needn’t  quarrel,”  said  Polly. 

“Oh  no,  Mrs.  Richards,”  rejoined  Spitfire.  “Not  at 
all,  I don’t  wish  it,  we  needn’t  stand  upon  that  footing. 
Miss  Floy  being  a permanency,  Master  Paul  a tem- 
porary.” Spitfire  made  use  of  none  but  comma  pauses  ; 
shooting  out  whatever  she  had  to  say  in  one  sentence, 
&nd  in  one  breath,  if  possible. 

“ Miss  Florence  has  just  come  home,  hasn’t  she?” 
asked  Polly.. 

“Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  just  come  home,  and  here,  Miss 
Floy,  before  you’ve  been  in  the  house  a quarter  of  an 
hour,  you  go  a smearing  your  wet  face  against  the  ex- 
pensive mourning  that  Mrs.  Richards  is  a wearing  for  you* 
Ma  ! ” With  this  remonstrance,  young  Spitfire,  whose 
real  name  was  Susan  Nipper,  detached  the  child  from 
her  new  friend  by  a wrench — as  if  she  were  a tooth. 
But  she  seemed  to  do  it,  more  in  the  excessively  sharp 
exercise  of  her  official  functions,  than  with  any  deliber- 
ate unkindness. 

“She’ll  bo  quite  happy,  now  sha  has  ccma  home 


“I  MAY  BE  VERY  FOND  OF  PENNYWINKLES,  MRS.  RICHARDS,  BUT  IT 
don’t  FOLLOW  THAT  I’m  TO  HAVE  ’EM  FOR  TEA.” 

— Doinbey  and  Son,  Yol.  Eleven,  page  361. 


■P 


Yol.  11 


862 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


again/’  said  Polly,  nodding  to  her  with  an  encouraging 
smile  upon  her  wholesome  face,  “ and  will  be  so  pleased 
to  see  her  dear  Papa  to-night/’ 

“Lork,  Mrs.  Richards!”  cried  Miss  Nipper,  taking 
up  her  words  with  a jerk.  “ Don’t.  See  her  dear  Papa 
indeed  ! I should  like  to  see  her  do  it ! ” 

“ Won’t  she  then  ?”  asked  Polly. 

“ Lork,  Mrs.  Richards,  no,  her  Pa’s  a deal  too  wrapped 
up  in  somebody  else,  and  before  there  was  a somebody 
else  to  be  wrapped  up  in  she  never  was  a favourite, 
girls  are  thrown  away  in  this  house,  Mrs,  Richards,  I 
assure  you.” 

The  child  looked  quickly  from  one  nurse  to  the  other, 
as  if  she  understood  and  felt  what  was  said. 

“ You  surprise  me!”  cried  Polly.  “ Hasn’t  Mr 
Dombey  seen  her  since — ” 

“ No,”  interrupted  Susan  Nipper.  “ Not  once  since, 
and  he  hadn’t  hardly  set  his  eyes  upon  her  before  that 
for  months  and  months,  and  I don’t  think  he’d  have 
known  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  had  met  her  in  the 
streets,  or  would  know  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  was 
to  meet  her  in  the  streets  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Richards; 
as  to  me ,”  said  Spitfire,  with  a giggle,  “I  doubt  if  he’s 
aweer  of  my  existence.” 

“ Pretty  dear  ! ” said  Richards  ; meaning,  not  Miss 
Nipper,  but  the  little  Florence. 

“ Oh  ! there’s  a Tartar  within  a hundred  miles  of 
where  we’re  now  in  conversation,  I can  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Richards,  present  company  always  excepted  too,”  said 
Susan  Nipper  ; “wish  you  good  morning,  Mrs.  Richards, 
now  Miss  Floy,  you  come  along  with  me,  and  don’t  go 
hanging  back  like  a naughty  wicked  child  that  judg- 
ments is  no  examples  to,  don’t.” 

In  spite  of  being  thus  adjured,  and  in  spite  also  of 
some  hauling  on  the  part  of  Susan  Nipper,  tending  to- 
wards the  dislocation  of  her  right  shoulder,  little  Flor- 
ence broke  away,  and  kissed  her  new  friend,  affection- 
ately. 

“Goodbye!”  said  the  child.  “God  bless  you!  I 
shall  come  to  see  you  again  soon,  and  you’ll  come  to  se« 
me  ! Susan  will  let  us.  Won’t  you,  Susan  ?” 

Spitfire  seemed  to  be  in  the  main  a good-natured 
little  body,  although  a disciple  of  that  school  of  trainers 
of  the  young  idea  which  holds  that  childhood,  like 
money,  must  be  shaken  and  rattled  and  jostled  about  & 
good  deal  to  keep  it  bright.  For,  being  thus  appealed 
to  with  some  endearing  gestures  and  caresses,  she  folded 
her  small  arms  and  shook  her  head,  and  conveyed  a re- 
lenting expression  into  her  very-wide  open  black  eyes. 

“It  ain’t  right  of  you  to  ask  it,  Miss  Flpy,  for  you 
know  I can’t  refuse  you,  but  Mrs.  Richards  and  me 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


363 


will  see  wliat  can  be  done,  if  Mrs.  Richards  likes,  I may 
wish,  you  see,  to  take  a voyage  to  Chaney,  Mrs.  Richards, 
but  I mayn’t  know  how  to  leave  the  London  Docks.” 

Richards  assented  to  the  proposition. 

“ This  house  ain’t  so  exactly  ringing  with  merry- 
making,” said  Miss  Nipper,  “ that  one  need  be  lonelier 
than  one  must  be.  Your  Toxes  and  your  Chickses  may 
draw  out  my  two  front  double  teeth,  Mrs.  Richards,  but 
that’s  no  reason  why  I need  offer  ’em  the  whole  set.” 

This  proposition  was  also  assented  to  by  Richards,  as 
an  obvious  one. 

“ So  I’m  agreeable,  I’m  sure,”  said  Susan  Nipper,  “ to 
live  friendly,  Mrs.  Richards,  while  Master  Paul  contin- 
ues a permanency,  if  the  means  can  be  planned  out 
without  going  openly  against  orders,  but  goodness 
gracious  me,  Miss  Floy,  you  haven’t  got  your  things  off 
yet,  you  naughty  child,  you  haven’t,  come  along  ! ” 

With  these  words  Susan  Nipper,  in  a transport  of 
coercion,  made  a charge  at  her  young  ward,  and  swept 
her  out  of  the  room. 

The  child,  in  her  grief  and  neglect,  was  so  gentle,  so 
quiet,  and  uncomplaining  ; was  possessed  of  so  much 
affection,  that  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  have,  and  so 
much  sorrowful  intelligence  that  no  one  seemed  to  mind 
or  think  about  the  wounding  of  ; that  Polly’s  heart  was 
sore  when  she  was  left  alone  again.  In  the  simple  pas- 
sage that  had  taken  place  between  herself  and  the 
motherless  little  girl,  her  own  motherly  heart  had  been 
touched  no  less  than  the  child’s  ; and  she  felt,  as  the 
child  did,  that  there  was  something  of  confidence  and 
interest  between  them  from  that  moment. 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Toodle’s  great  reliance  on  Polly, 
she  was  perhaps  in  point  of  artificial  accomplishments 
very  little  his  superior.  But  she  was  a good  plain  sam- 
ple of  a nature  that  is  ever,  in  the  mass,  better,  truer, 
higher,  nobler,  quicker  to  feel,  and  much  more  constant 
to  retain,  all  tenderness  and  pity,  self-denial  and  devo- 
tion, than  the  nature  of  men.  And,  perhaps,  unlearned 
as  she  was,  she  could  have  brought  a dawning  knowledge 
home  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  that  early  day,  which  would  not 
then  have  struck  him  in  the  end  like  lightning. 

But  this  is  from  the  purpose.  Polly  only  thought,  at 
that  time,  of  improving  on  her  successful  propitiation  of 
Miss  Nipper,  and  devising  some  means  of  having  little 
Florence  beside  her,  lawfully,  and  without  rebellion. 
An  opening  happened  to  present  itself  that  very  night. 

She  had  been  rung  down  into  the  glass  room  as  usual, 
and  had  walked  about  and  about  it  a long  time,  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  when,  to  her  great  surprise  and  dis- 
may, Mr.  Dombey  came  out  suddenly  and  stopped  before 
her. 


364 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“Good  evening,  Richards.” 

Jnst  the  same  austere,  stiff  gentleman,  as  he  had  ap. 
peared  to  her  on  that  first  day.  Such  a hard-looking 
gentleman,  that  she  involuntarily  dropped  her  eyes  and 
her  curtsey  at  the  same  time. 

“ How  is  Master  Paul,  Richards  ? ” 

“Quite  thriving,  sir,  and  well.” 

“ He  looks  so,”  said  Mr.  Dombey  glancing  with  great 
interest  at  the  tiny  face  she  uncovered  for  his  observa- 
tion, and  yet  affecting  to  be  half  careless  of  it.  “ They 
give  you  everything  you  want,  I hope  ? ” 

“ Oh  yes,  thank  you,  sir.” 

She  suddenly  appended  such  an  obvious  hesitation  to 
this  reply,  however,  that  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  turned 
away,  stopped,  and  turned  round  again,  inquiringly. 

“ I believe  nothing  is  so  good  for  making  children  lively 
and  cheerful,  sir,  as  seeing  other  children  playing  about 
’em,”  observed  Polly,  taking  courage. 

“ I think  I mentioned  to  you,  Richards,  when  you  came 
here,”  said  Mr.  Dombey  with  a frown,  “ that  I wished 
you  to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as  possible.  You  can 
continue  your  walk  if  you  please.” 

With  that,  he  disappeared  into  his  inner  room  ; and 
Polly  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he  had  thor- 
oughly misunderstood  her  object,  and  that  she  had  fallen 
into  disgrace  without  the  least  advancement  of  her 
purpose. 

Next  night,  she  found  him  walking  about  the  conserva- 
tory when  she  came  down.  As  she  stopped  at  the  door, 
checked  by  this  unusual  sight,  and  uncertain  whether  to 
advance  or  retreat,  he  called  her  in. 

“ If  you  really  think  that  sort  of  society  is  good  for  the 
child,”  he  said  sharply,  as  if  there  had  been  no  interval 
since  she  proposed  it,  ‘ ‘ where’s  Miss  Florence  ? ” 

“Nothing  could  be  better  than  Miss  Florence,  sir,” 
said  Polly  eagerly,  “but  I understood  from  her  little  maid 
that  they  were  not  to — ” 

Mr.  Dombey  rang  the  bell,  and  walked  till  it  was  an- 
swered. 

“ Tell  them  always  to  let  Miss  Florence  be  with  Rich- 
ards when  she  chooses,  and  go  out  with  her,  and  so  forth. 
Tell  them  to  let  the  children  be  together,  when  Richards 
wishes  it.” 

The  iron  was  now  hot,  and  Richards  striking  on  it 
boldly — it  was  a good  cause  and  she  was  bold  in  it,  though 
instinctively  afraid  of  Mr.  Dombey — requested  that  Miss 
Florence  might  be  sent  down  then  and  there,  to  make 
friends  with  her  little  brother. 

She  feigned  to  be  dandling  the  child  as  the  servant  re- 
tired on  this  errand,  but  she  thought  she  saw  that  Mr. 
Dombey’s  colour  changed  ; that  the  expression  of  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


865 


face  quite  altered  ; that  lie  turned  hurriedly,  as  if  to 
gainsay  what  he  had  said,  or  she  had  said*,  or  both,  and 
was  only  deterred  by  very  shame. 

And  she  was  right.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  his 
slighted  child,  there  had  been  that  in  the  sad  embrace 
between  her  and  her  dying  mother,  which  was  at  once  a 
revelation  and  a reproach  to  him.  Let  him  be  absorbed 
as  he  would  in  the  Son  on  whom  he  built  such  high 
hopes,  he  could  not  forget  that  closing  scene.  He  could 
not  forget  that  he  had  had  no  part  in  it.  That,  at  the 
bottom  of  its  clear  depths  of  tenderness  and  truth,  lay 
those  two  figures  clasped  in  each  other’s  arms,  while  he 
stood  on  the  bank  above  them,  looking  down  a mere 
spectator — not  a sharer  with  them — quite  shut  out. 

Unable  to  exclude  these  things  from  his  remembrance, 
or  to  keep  his  mind  free  from  such  imperfect  shapes  of 
the  meaning  with  which  they  were  fraught,  as  were  able 
to  make  themselves  visible  to  him  through  the  mist  of 
his  pride,  his  previous  feelings  of  indifference  towards 
little  Florence  changed  into  an  uneasiness  of  an  extra- 
ordinary kind.  He  almost  felt  as  if  she  watched  and 
distrusted  him.  As  if  she  held  the  clue  to  something 
secret  in  his  breast,  of  the  nature  of  which  he  was  hardly 
informed  himself.  As  if  she  had  an  innate  knowledge  of 
one  jarring  and  discordant  string  within  him,  and  her 
very  breath  could  sound  it. 

His  feeling  about  the  child  had  been  negative  from  her 
birth.  He  had  never  conceived  an  aversion  to  her  ; it  had 
not  been  worth  his  while  or  in  his  humour.  She  had 
never  been  a positively  disagreeable  object  to  him.  But 
now  he  was  ill  at  ease  about  her.  She  troubled  his  peace. 
He  would  have  preferred  to  put  her  idea  aside  altogether, 
if  he  had  known  how.  Perhaps — -who  shall  decide  on 
such  mysteries ?— -he  was  afraid  that  he  might  come  to 
hate  her. 

When  little  Florence  timidly  presented  herself,  Mr. 
Dombey  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  dowrn,  and  looked 
towards  her.  Had  he  looked  with  greater  interest  and 
with  a father’s  eye,  he  might  have  read  in  her  keen 
glance  the  impulses  and  fears  that  made  her  waver  ; 
the  passionate  desire  to  run  clinging  to  him,  crying,  as 
she  hid  her  face  in  his  embrace,  “ Oh,  father,  try  to  love 
me  ! there’s  no  one  else  !”  the  dread  of  a repulse  ; the 
fear  of  being  too  bold,  and  of  offending  him  the  pitia- 
ble need  in  which  she  stood  of  some  assurance  and  en- 
couragement ; and  bow  her  overcharged  young  heart  was 
wandering  to  find  some  natural  resting-place,  for  its 
sorrow  and  affection. 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  her  pause  ir- 
resolutely at  the  door  and  look  towards  him  ; and  he  saw 
no  more. 


366 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS* 


“ Come  in,”  lie  said,  c<  come  in  : wliat  is  the  child  afraid 
of?” 

She  came  in  ; and  after  glancing  round  her  for  a mo- 
ment with  an  uncertain  air,  stood  pressing  her  small 
hands  hard  together,  close  within  the  door. 

“ Come  here,  Florence,”  said  her  father,  coldly.  “ Do 
you  know  who  I am  ? ” 

“ Yes,  papa.” 

“ Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?” 

The  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them 
quickly  to  his  face,  were  frozen  by  the  expression  it 
wore.  She  looked  down  again,  and  put  out  her  trembling 
hand.  ^ 

Mr.  Dombey  took  it  loosely  in  his  own,  and  stood  look- 
ing down  upon  her  for  a moment  as  if  he  knew  as  little 
as  the  child,  what  to  say  or  do. 

“ There  ! Be  a good  girl ! ” he  said,  patting  her  on  the 
head,  and  regarding  her  as  it  were  by  stealth  with  a dis- 
turbed and  doubtful  look.  “ Go  to  Richards  ! Go  ! ” 

His  little  daughter  hesitated  for  another  instant  as 
though  she  would  have  clung  about  him  still,  or  had 
some  lingering  hope  that  he  might  raise  her  in  his  arms 
and  kiss  her.  She  looked  up  in  his  face  once  more.  He 
thought  how  like  her  expression  was  then,  to  what  it 
had  been  when  she  looked  round  at  the  doctor — that 
night — and  instinctively  dropped  her  hand  and  turned 
away. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  Florence  was  at 
a great  disadvantage  in  her  father’s  presence.  It  was 
not  only  a constraint  upon  the  child’s  mind,  but  even 
upon  the  natural  grace  and  freedom  of  her  actions.  Still 
Polly  persevered  with  all  the  better  heart  for  seeing  this; 
and,  judging  of  Mr.  Dombey  by  herself, had  great  confi- 
dence in  the  mute  appeal  of  poor  little  Florence’s  mourn, 
ing  dress.  “ It’s  hard  indeed,”  thought  Polly,  “ if  he  takes 
only  to  one  little  motherless  child,  when  he  has  another, 
and  that  a girl,  before  his  eyes.” 

So,  Polly  kept  her  before  his  eyes,  as  long  as  she 
could,  and  managed  so  well  with  little  Paul,  as  to  make 
it  very  plain  that  he  was  all  the  livelier  for  his  sister’s 
company.  When  it  was  time  to  withdraw  up-stairs 
again,  she  would  have  sent  Florence  into  the  inner  room 
to  say  good-night  to  her  father,  but  the  child  was  timid 
and  drew  back  ; and  when  she  urged  her  again,  said, 
spreading  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out 
her  own  unworthiness,  “ Oh  no  no  ! He  don’t  want  me. 
He  don’t  want  me.” 

The  little  altercation  between  them  had  attracted  the 
notice  of  Mr.  Dombey,  who  inquired  from  the  table  where 
ite  was  sitting  at  his  wine,  what  the  matter  was. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


367 


*e  Miss  Florence  was  afraid  of  interrupting,  sir,  if  sli© 
came  in  to  say  good-night,”  said  Richards. 

“ It  doesn’t  matter,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  “You 
®an  let  her  come  and  go  without  regardingme.” 

The  child  shrunk  as  she  listened — and  was  gone,  before 
her  humble  friend  looked  round  again. 

However,  Polly  triumphed  not  a little  in  the  success 
of  her  well-intentioned  scheme,  and  in  the  address  with 
which  she  had  brought  it  to  bear  ; whereof  she  made  a 
full  disclosure  to  Spitfire  when  she  was  once  more  safely 
intrenched  up-stairs.  Miss  Nipper  received  that  proof  of 
her  confidence,  as  well  as  the  prospect  of  their  free  asso- 
ciation for  the  future,  rather  coldly,  and  was  anything 
but  enthusiastic  in  her  demonstrations  of  joy. 

“ I thought  you  would  have  been  pleased,”  said  Polly. 

“ Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  I am  very  well  pleased,  thank 
you,”  returned  Susan,  who  had  suddenly  become  so  very 
upright  that  she  seemed  to  have  put  an  additional  bone 
in  her  stays. 

“You  don’t  show  it,”  said  Polly. 

“ Oh  ! Being  only  a permanency  I couldn't  be  ex- 
pected to  show  it  like  a temporary,”  said  Susan  Nipper. 
“ Temporaries  carries  it  all  before  ’em  here,  I find,  but 
though  there’s  a excellent  party- wall  between  this  house 
and  the  next,  1 mayn’t  exactly  like  to  go  to  it,  Mrs. 
Richards,  notwithstanding  ! ” 


CHAPTER  IY. 

Jn  which  some  more  First  Appearances  are  made  on  the  Stage  of  these 
Adventures. 

Though  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  were  within 
the  liberties  of  the  city  of  London,  and  within  hearing 
of  Bow  Bells,  when  their  clashing  voices  were  not 
drowned  by  the  uproar  in  the  streets,  yet  were  there 
hints  of  adventurous  and  romantic  story  to  be  observed 
in  some  of  the  adjacent  objects.  Gog  and  Magog  held 
their  state  within  ten  minutes’  walk  ; the  Royal  Ex- 
change was  close  at  hand  ; the  Bank  of  England  with  its 
vaults  of  go7^  and  silver  “ down  among  the  dead  men” 
underground,  was  their  magnificent  neighbour.  Just 
round  the  corner  stood  the  rich  East  India  House,  teem- 
ing with  suggestions  of  precious  stuffs  and  stones,  tigers, 
elephants,  howdahs,  hookahs, umbrellas,  palm-trees,  pal- 
anquins, and  gorgeous  princes  of  a brown  complexion  sit- 
ting on  carpets  with  their  slippers  very  much  turned  up 
at  the  toes.  Anywhere  in  the  immediate  vicinity  there 
might  be  seen  pictures  of  ships  speeding  away  full  sail 
to  all  parts  of  the  world  ; outfitting  ware-houses  ready  to 


V 

368  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

pack  off  anybody  anywhere,  fully  equipped  in  half  an 
hour  ; and  little  timber  midshipmen  in  obsolete  naval  uni- 
forms, eternally  employed  outside  the  shop-doors  of  nau- 
tical instrument-makers  in  taking  observations  of  the 
hackney-coaches. 

Sole  master  and  proprietor  of  one  of  these  effigies — 
of  that  whicli  might  be  called,  familiarly,  the  wooden- 
«st — of  that  which  thrust  itself  out  above  the  pave- 
ment, right  leg  foremost,  with  a suavity  the  least  endur- 
able, and  had  the  shoe-b  uckles  and  flapped  waistcoat  the 
least  reconcileable  to  human  reason,  and  bore  at  its 
right  eye  the  most  offensively  disproportionate  piece  of 
machinery — sole  master  and  proprietor  of  that  midship- 
man, and  proud  of  him  too,  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a 
Welsh  wig,  had  paid  house-rent,  taxes,  and  dues,  for 
snore  years  than  many  a full-grown  midshipman  of  flesh 
and  blood  has  numbered  in  his  life  ; and  midshipmen 
who  have  attained  a pretty  green  old  age,  have  not  been 
wanting  in  the  English  navy. 

The  stock-in-trade  of  this  old  gentleman  comprised 
chronometers,  barometers,  telescopes,  compasses,  charts, 
maps,  sextants,  quadrants,  and  specimens  of  every  kind 
of  instrument  used  in  the  working  of  a ship's  course,  or 
the  keeping  of  a ship's  reckoning,  or  the  prosecuting  of 
a ship's  discoveries.  Objects  in  brass  and  glass  were  in 
his  drawers  and  on  his  shelves,  which  none  but  the  ini. 
tiated  could  have  found  the  top  of,  or  guessed  the  use  of, 
or  having  examined,  could  have  ever  got  back  again  into 
their  mahogany  nests  without  assistancec  Everything 
was  jammed  into  the  tightest  cases,  fitted  into  the  nar. 
rowest  corners,  fenced  up  behind  the  most  impertinent 
cushions,  and  screwed  into  the  acutest  angles,  to  prevent 
its  philosophical  composure  from  being  disturbed  by  the 
rolling*  of  the  sea.  Such  extraordinary  precautions  were 
taken  in  every  instance  to  save  room,  and  keep  the  thing 
compact  ; and  so  much  practical  navigation  was  fitted, 
and  cushioned,  and  screwed  into  every  box  (whether  the 
box  was  a mere  slab,  as  some  were,  or  something  between 
a cocked  hat  and  a star-fish,  as  others  were,  and  those 
quite  mild  and  modest  boxes  as  compared  with  others) ; 
that  the  shop  itself,  partaking  of  the  general  infection, 
seemed  almost  to  become  a snug,  sea-going,  ship-shape 
concern,  wanting  only  good  sea-room,  in  the  event  of  an 
unexpected  launch, to  work  its  way  securely  to  any  desert 
island  in  the  world. 

Many  minor  incidents  in  the  household  life  of  the  Ship's 
Instrument-maker  who  was  proud  of  his  little  midship- 
man, assisted  and  bore  out  this  fancy.  His  acquaintance 
lying  chiefly  among  ship-chandlers  and  so  forth,  he  had 
always  plenty  of  the  veritable  ships’  biscuit  on  bistable. 
It  was  familiar  with  dried  meats  and  tongues,  possess 


DOMBEY  AND  SC  N, 


869 


ing  an  extraordinary  flavour  of  rope  yarn.  Pickles  were 
produced  upon  it,  in  great  wholesale  jars,  with  “dealer 
in  all  kinds  of  Ships'  Provisions  ” on  the  label  ; spirits 
were  set  forth  in  case  bottles  with  no  throats.  Old  prints 
of  ships  with  alphabetical  references  to  their  various 
mysteries,  hung  in  frames  upon  the  walls  ; the  Tartar 
Frigate  under  weigh,  was  on  the  plates  ; outlandish 
shells,  seaweeds,  and  mosses,  decorated  the  chimney 
piece  ; the  little  wainscoted  back  parlour  was  lighted 
by  a skylight,  like  a cabin. 

Here  he  lived  too,  in  skipper-like  state,  all  alone  with 
his  nephew  Walter  : a boy  of  fourteen  who  looked  quite 
enough  like  a midshipman,  to  carry  out  the  prevailing 
idea.  But  there  it  ended,  for  Solomon  Gills  himself 
(more  generally  called  old  Sol)  was  far  from  having  a mar- 
itime appearance.  To  say  nothing  of  his  Welsh  wig, 
which  was  as  plain  and  stubborn  a W elsh  wig  as  ever  was 
worn,  and  in  which  he  looked  like  anything  but  a Rover, 
he  was  a slow,  quietspoken,  thoughtful  old  fellow,  with 
eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had  been  small  suns  looking  at  you, 
through  a fog  ; and  a newly  awakened  manner,  such  as  he 
might  have  acquired  by  having  stared  for  three  or  four 
days  successively  through  every  optical  instrument  in  his 
shop,  and  suddenly  came  back  to  the  world  again,  to  find  it 
green.  The  only  change  ever  known  in  his  outward  man, 
was  from  a complete  suit  of  coffee-colour  cut  very  square, 
and  ornamented  with  glaring  buttons,  to  the  same  suit  of 
coffee  colour  minus  the  inexpressibles,  which  were  then 
of  a pale  nankeen.  He  wore  a very  precise  shirt-frill,  and 
carried  a pair  of  first-rate  spectacles  on  his  forehead, 
and  a tremendous  chronometer  in  his  fob,  rather  than 
doubt  which  precious  possession,  he  wouid  have  believed 
in  a conspiracy  against  it  on  the  part  of  ail  the  clocks  and 
watches  in  the  city,  and  even  of  the  very  Sun  itself. 
Such  as  he  was,  such  he  had  been  in  the  shop  and  par 
lour,  behind  the  little  midshipman,  for  years  upon  years  , 
going  regularly  aloft  to  bed  every  night  in  a howling 
garret  remote  from  the  lodgers,  where,  when  gentlemen 
of  England  who  lived  below  at  ease  had  little  or  no  idea 
of  the  state  of  the  weather,  it  often  blew  great  guns. 

It  is  half-past  five  o’clock,  and  an  autumn  afternoon 
when  the  reader  and  Solomon  Gills  become  acquainted. 
Solomon  Gills  is  in  the  act  of  seeing  what  time  it  is  by 
the  unimpeachable  chronometer.  The  usual  daily  clear 
ance  has  been  making  in  the  city  for  an  hour  cr  more  5 
and  the  human  tide  is  still  rolling  westward.  ‘ The 
streets  have  thinned,'  as  Mr.  Gills  says,  ‘ very  much.’ 
It  threatens  to  be  wet  to-night.  All  the  weather-glasses 
in  the  shop  are  in  low  spirits,  and  the  rain  already  shines 
upon  the  cocked  hat  of  the  wooden  midshipman. 

“Where’s  Walter,  I wonder  l”  said  Solomon  Gills, 


370 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


after  lie  had  carefully  put  up  the  chronometer  again. 
“ Here's  dinner  been  ready,  half  an  hour,  and  no  Wal- 
ter !” 

Turning  round  upon  his  stool  behind  the  counter,  Mr. 
Gills  looked  out  among  the  instruments  in  the  window, 
to  see  if  his  nephew  might  be  crossing  the  road.  No. 
He  was  not  among  the  bobbing  umbrellas,  and  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  the  newspaper  boy  in  the  oilskin  cap  who 
was  slowly  working  his  way  along  the  piece  of  brass 
outside,  writing  his  name  over  Mr.  Gills’  name  with  his 
forefinger. 

“ If  X didn't  know  he  was  too  fond  of  me  to  make  a run 
of  it,  and  go  and  enter  himself  aboard  ship  against  my 
wishes,  I should  begin  to  be  fidgetty,”  said  Mr.  Gills, 
tapping  two  or  three  weather  glasses  with  his  knuckles. 
“ I really  should.  All  in  the  Downs,  eh  ! Lots  of  mois- 
ture ! Well ! it's  wanted." 

“I  believe/’  said  Mr.  Gills,  blowing  the  dust  off  the 
glass  top  of  a compass  case,  “ that  you  don’t  point  more 
direct  and  due  to  the  back  parlour  than  the  boy’s  incli- 
nation does  after  all.  And  the  parlour  couldn’t  bear 
straighter  either.  Due  north.  Not  the  twentieth  part 
of  a point  either  way.’’ 

“ Halloa  Uncle  Sol  ! ’’ 

“Halloa  my  boy  !’’  cried  the  Instrument-maker,  turn- 
ing briskly  round.  “ What ! you  are  here,  are  you  ! ” 

A cheerful-looking,  merry  boy,  fresh  with  running 
home  in  the  rain ; fair-faced,  bright-eyed,  and  curly- 
haired. 

“Well  uncle,  how  have  you  got  on  without  me  all 
day  ! Is  dinner  ready  ? I’m  so  hungry.  ’’ 

“ As  to  getting  on,’’  said  Salomon  good-naturedly,  “it 
would  be  odd  if  I couldn’t  get  on  without  a young  dog 
like  you  a great  deal  better  than  with  you.  As  to  din-, 
ner  being  ready,  it’s  been  ready  this  half  hour  and  wait- 
ing for  you.  As  to  being  hungry,  I am  ! ’’ 

“ Come  along  then,  uncle  !”  cried  the  boy.  “ Hurrah 
for  the  admiral  ! ’’ 

“Confound  the  admiral!’’  returned  Solomon  Gills. 
“You  mean  the  Lord  Mayor.’’ 

“ No  I don’t ! ’’  cried  the  boy.  “ Hurrah  for  the  ad- 
miral. Hurrah  for  the  admiral  ! For — ward  !’* 

At  this  word  of  command,  the  Welsh  wig  and  its  wear- 
er were  borne  without  resistance  into  the  back  parlour, 
as  at  the  head  of  a boarding  party  of  five  hundred  men  ; 
and  uncle  Sol  and  his  nephew  were  speedily  engaged  on 
a fried  sole  with  a prospect  of  steak  to  follow. 

“ The  Lord  Mayor,  Wally,”  said  Solomon,  “ for  ever  ! 
No  more  admirals.  The  Lord  Mayor’s  your  admiral.” 

“ Oh,  is  he  though  ! ” said  the  boy,  shaking  his  head. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


371 


“ Why,  the  Sword  Bearer's  better  than  him.  He  draws 
his  sword  sometimes." 

“ And  a pretty  figure  he  cuts  with  it  for  his  pains,"  re- 
turned the  uncle.  “Listeu  to  me  Wally,  listen  to  me. 
Look  on  the  mantel-shelf. " 

“ Why  who  has  cocked  my  silver  mug  up  there,  on  a 
nail  ?"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

“ I have,"  said  his  uncle.  “ No  more  mugs  now. 
We  must  begin  to  drink  out  of  glasses  to-day,  Walter. 
We  are  men  of  business.  We  belong  to  the  city.  We 
started  in  life  this  morning. " 

“ Well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  “FI!  drink  out  of  any- 
thing you  like,  so  long  as  I can  drink  to  you.  Here's  to 
you,  Uncle  Sol,  and  hurrah  for  the—" 

“ Lord  Mayor,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 

“ For  the  Lord  Mayor,  Sheriffs,  Common  Council,  and 
Livery,"  said  the  boy.  “ Long  life  to  'em  ! " 

The  uncle  nodded  his  head  with  great  satisfaction. 
“ And  now,"  he  said,  “ let's  hear  something  about  the 
Firm." 

“ Oh  ! there's  not  much  to  be  told  about  the  Firm, 
uncle,"  said  the  boy,  plying  his  knife  and  fork.  “ It's  a 
precious  dark  set  of  offices,  and  in  the  room  where  I sit, 
there's  a high  fender,  and  an  iron  safe,  and  some  cards 
about  ships  that  are  going  to  sail,  and  an  almanack,  and 
some  desks  and  stools,  and  an  ink-bottle,  and  some 
books,  and  some  boxes,  and  a lot  of  cobwebs,  and  in  one 
of  ’em,  just  over  my  head,  a shrivelled- up  blue-bottle 
that  looks  as  if  it  had  hung  there  for  ever  so  long." 

“ Nothing  else  ?"  said  the  uncle. 

“ No,  nothing  else,  except  an  old  bird-cage  (I  wonder 
how  that  ever  came  there  !)  and  a coal-scuttle." 

“No  bankers'  books,  or  cheque  books,  or  bills,  or 
such  tokens  of  wealth  rolling  in  from  day  to  day  ? " said 
-lid  Sol,  looking  rustfully  at  his  nephew  out  of  the  fog 
that  always  seemed  to  hang  about  him,  and  laying  an 
unctuous  emphasis  upon  the  words. 

“ Oh  yes,  plenty  of  that  I suppose,"  returned  his 
nephew  carelessly  ; “ but  all  that  sort  of  thing's  in  Mr. 
Carker's  room,  or  Mr.  Mor fin's,  or  Mr.  Dombey's." 

“Has  Mr.  Dombey  been  there  to-day?"  inquired  th© 
uncle. 

“ Oh  yes  ! In  and  out  all  day." 

“ He  didn't  take  any  notice  of  you,  I suppose." 

“Yes  he  did.  He  walked  up  to  my  seat, — I wish  h® 
wasn't  so  solemn  and  stiff,  uncle — and  said  ‘ Oh  ! you 
are  the  son  of  Mr.  Gills  the  Ships'  Instrument-maker.' 
f Nephew,  sir,'  I said.  ‘I  said  nephew,  boy,'  said  he. 
But  I could  take  my  oath  he  said  son,  uncle." 

“ You’re  mistaken  I dare  say.  It’s  no  matter." 

“No,  it’s  no  matter,  but  he  needn’t  have  been  so 


m 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sharp,  I thought.  There  was  no  harm  in  it  though  ho 
did  say  son.  Then  he  told  me  that  you  had  spoken  to 
him  about  me,  and  that  he  had  found  me  employment  in 
the  House  accordingly,  and  that  I was  expected  to  be  at- 
tentive and  punctual,  and  then  he  went  away.  I thought 
he  didn't  seem  to  like  me  much.” 

“ You  mean,  I suppose,”  observed  the  Instrument- 
maker,  “ that  you  didn't  seem  to  like  him  much.” 

c<  Well,  uncle,”  returned  the  boy,  laughing.  “ Per- 
haps so  ; I never  thought  of  that.” 

Solomon  looked  a little  graver  as  he  finished  his  din- 
ner, and  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  boy's  bright 
face.  When  dinner  was  done,  and  the  cloth  was  cleared 
away  (the  entertainment  had  been  brought  from  a neigh- 
bouring eating-house),  he  lighted  a candle,  and  went 
down  below  into  a little  cellar,  while  his  nephew,  stand- 
ing on  the  mouldy  staircase,  dutifully  held  the  light. 
After  a moment's  groping  here  and  there,  he  presently 
returned  with  a very  ancient-looking  bottle,  covered 
with  dust  and  dirt. 

“ Why,  Uncle  Sol  !'*  said  the  boy,  “ what  are  you 
about  ! that's  the  wonderful  Madeira — there's  only  one 
more  bottle  ! ” 

Uncle  Sol  nodded  his  head,  implying  that  he  knew 
very  well  what  he  was  about  ; and  having  drawn  the 
cork  in  solemn  silence,  filled  two  glasses  and  set  the  bot- 
tle and  a third  clean  glass  on  the  table. 

4 ‘You  shall  drink  the  other  bottle,  Wally,”  he  said, 
ft  when  you  come  to  good  fortune  ; when  you  are  a 
thriving,  respected,  happy  man  ; when  the  start  in  life 
you  have  made  to-day  shall  have  brought  you,  as  I pray 
Heaven  it  may  ! — to  a smooth  part  of  the  course  you 
have  to  run,  my  child.  My  love  to  you  ! ” 

Some  of  the  fog  that  hung  about  old  Sol  seemed  to 
have  got  into  his  throat ; for  he  spoke  huskily.  His 
hand  shook  too,  as  he  clinked  his  glass  against  his  neph- 
ew’s. But  having  once  got  the  wine  to  his  lips,  he 
tossed  it  off  like  a man,  and  smacked  them  afterwards. 

“Hear  uncle,”  said  the  boy,  affecting  to  make  light  of 
it,  while  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  “ for  the  honour  you 
have  done  me,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  1 shall  now  beg  to 
propose  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  with  three  times  three  and 
one  cheer  more.  Hurrah  ! and  you'll  return  thanks, 
uncle,  when  we  drink  the  last  bottle  together  ; won’t 
you?” 

They  clinked  their  glasses  again  ; and  Walter,  who 
was  hoarding  his  wine,  took  a sip  of  it,  and  held  the 
glass  up  to  his  eye  with  as  critical  an  air  as  he  could  pos- 
sibly assume. 

His  uncle  sat  looking  at  him  for  some  time  in  silence. 
When  their  eyes  at  last  met,  he  began  at  once  to  pursue 


POMBEY  AND  SON. 


373 


the  theme  that  had  occupied  his  thoughts,  aloud,  as  if 
he  had  been  speaking  all  the  while. 

“ You  see,  Walter,”  he  said,  “ in  truth  this  business 
is  merely  a habile  with  me.  I am  so  accustomed  to  th@ 
habit  that  I could  hardly  live  if  I relinquished  it : but 
there’s  nothing  doing,  nothing  doing.  When  that  uni- 
form was  worn,”  pointing  out  towards  the  little  mid- 
shipman, “then  indeed,  fortunes  were  to  be  made,  and 
were  made.  But  competition,  competition — new  inven. 
tion,  new  invention — alteration,  alteration-the  world's 
gone  past  me.  I hardly  know  where  I am  myself ; much 
less  where  my  customers  are.  " 

“ Never  mind  'em  uncle  ! ” 

“ Since  you  came  home  from  weekly  boarding-school 
at  Peckham,  for  instance— and  that's  ten  days,”  said 
Solomon,  “ I don't  remember  more  than  one  person 
that  has  come  info  the  shop.” 

“ Two  uncle,  don’t  you  recollect  ? There  was  the  man 
who  came-  to  ask  for  change  for  a sovereign — ” 

“ That's  the  one,”  said  Solomon. 

“ Why  uncle  ! don’t  you  call  the  woman  anybody,  who 
tame  to  ask  the  way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike? ” 

“Oh!  it’s  true,”  said  Solomon,  “I  forgot  her.  Two 
persons.  ” 

“ To  be  sure,  they  didn't  buy  anything,”  cried  the 
boy. 

“No.  They  didn't  buy  anything,”  said  Solomon, 
quietly. 

“ Nor  want  anything,"  cried  the  boy. 

“ No.  If  they  had,  they'd  gone  to  another  shop,”  said 
Solomon,  in  the  same  tone. 

“But  there  were  two  of  'em  uncle,”  cried  the  boy, 
as  if  that  were  a great  triumph.  “ You  said  only  one.” 

“ Well,  Wally,”  resumed  the  old  man,  after  a short 
pause  : “ not  being  like  the  savages  who  came  on  Rob- 
inson Crusoe's  island,  we  can’t  live  on  a man  who  asks 
for  change  for  a sovereign,  and  a woman  who  inquires  the 
way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike.  As  I said  just  now,  the 
world  has  gone  past  me.  I don't  blame  it ; but  I no 
longer  understand  it.  Tradesmen  are  not  the  same  as 
they  used  to  be,  apprentices  are  not  the  same,  business 
is  not  the  same,  business  commodities  are  not  the  same. 
Seven-eighths  of  my  stock  is  old-fashioned.  I am  an 
old-fashioned  man  in  an  old-fashioned  shop,  in  a street 
that  is  not  the  same  as  I remember  it.  I have  fallen 
behind  the  time,  and  am  too  old  to  catch  if  again.  Even 
the  noise  it  makes  a long  way  ahead,  conf  uses  me.  ” 

Walter  was  going  to  speak,  but  his  uncle  held  up  his 
hand. 

“Therefore  Wally — therefore  it  is  that  I am  anxious 
you  should  be  early  in  the  busy  world,  and  on  the  world's 


374 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


track.  I am  only  the  ghost  of  this  business — its  sub- 
stance vanished  long  ago  : and  when  I die,  its  ghost 
will  be  laid.  As  it  is  clearly  no  inheritance  for  you 
then,  I have  thought  it  best  to  use  for  your  advantage, 
almost  the  only  fragment  of  the  old'  connexion  that 
stands  by  me,  through  long  habit.  Some  people  suppose 
me  to  be  wealthy.  I wish  for  your  sake,  they  were  right. 
But  whatever  I leave  behind  me,  or  whatever  I can  give 
you,  you  in  such  a house  as  Dombey's  are  in  the  road  to 
use  well  and  make  the  most  of.  Be  diligent,  try  to  like 
it,  my  dear  boy,  work  for  a steady  independence,  and  be 
happy  ! ” 

“ I'll  do  everything  I can,  uncle,  to  deserve  your  affec- 
tion. Indeed  I will,”  said  the  boy,  earnestly. 

“ I know  it,”  said  Solomon.  “I  am  sure  of  it,”  and 
he  applied  himself  to  a second  glass  of  the  old  Madeira, 
with  increased  relish.  “ As  to  the  sea,”  he  pursued, 
“ that's  well  enough  in  fiction,  Wally,  but  it  won't  do 
in  fact  : it  won’t  do  at  all.  It's  natural  enough  that 
you  should  think  about  it,  associating  it  with  all  these 
familiar  things  ; but  it  won't  do,  it  won't  do.” 

Solomon  Gills  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of  stealthy 
enjoyment,  as  he  talked  of  the  sea,  though  ; and  looked 
on  the  seafaring  objects  about  him  with  inexpressible 
complacency. 

“Think  of  this  wine  for  instance,”  said  old  Sol, 
“ which  has  been  to  the  East  Indies  and  back,  I'm  not 
able  to  say  how  often,  and  has  been  once  round  the 
world.  Think  of  the  pitch-dark  nights,  the  roaring 
winds,  and  rolling  seas  : ” 

“ The  thunder,  lightning,  rain,  hail,  storms  of  all 
kinds,”  said  the  boy. 

“To  be  sure,”  said  Solomon, — “that  this  wine  has 
passed  through.  Think  what  a straining  and  creaking 
of  timbers,  and  masts  : what  a whistling  and  howling 
of  the  gale  through  ropes  and  rigging  : ” 

“ What  a clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with  each 
other  who  shall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards  to  furl  tlie 
icy  sails,  while  the  ship  rolls  and  pitches,  like  mad  ! 
cried  his  nephew. 

“ Exactly  so,”  said  Solomon  : “ has  gone  on,  over  the 
old  casks  that  held  this  wine.  Why,  when  the  Charm- 
ing  Sally  went  down  in  the—” 

“In  the  Baltic  Sea,  in  the  dead  of  night  ; five-and- 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve  when  the  captain’s  watch 
stopped  in  his  pocket ; he  lying  dead  against  the  main- 
mast— on  the  fourteenth  of  February,  seventeen  forty 
nine  ! ” cried  Walter  with  great  animation. 

“ Ay,  to  be  sure  ! ” cried  old  Sol,  “ quite  right  1 Then, 
there  were  five  hundred  casks  of  such  wine  aboard  ; anc 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


375 


all  hands  (except  the  first  mate,  first  lieutenant,  two  sea- 
men, and  a lady,  in  a leaky  boat),  going  to  work  to  stave 
the  casks,  got  drunk,  and  died  drunk,  singing  ‘ Rule 
Britannia/  when  she  settled  and  went  down,  and  ending 
with  one  awful  scream  in  chorus/5 

“ But  when  the  George  the  Second  drove  ashore,  un- 
cle, on  the  coast  of  Cornwall,  in  a dismal  gale  two  hours 
before  daybreak,  on  the  fourth  of  March,  ’seventy-one, 
she  had  near  two  hundred  horses  aboard  ; and  the  horses 
breaking  loose  down  below,  early  in  the  gale,  and  tear- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  trampling  each  other  to  death,  made 
such  noises,  and  set  up  such  human  cries,  that  the  crew 
believing  the  ship  to  be  full  of  devils,  some  of  the  best 
men,  losing  heart  and  head,  went  overboard  in  despair, 
and  only  two  were  left  alive,  at  last,  to  tell  the  tale/5 

“ And  when, 55  said  old  Sol,  “ when  the  Polyphemus — 55 

“ Private  West  India  Trader,  burden  three  hundred 
and  fifty  tons,  Captain,  John  Brown  of  Deptford.  Own- 
ers, Wiggs  and  Co./5  cried  Walter. 

“The  same/5  said  Sol;  “when  she  took  fire,  four 
days’  sail  with  a fair  wind  out  of  Jamaica  Harbour,  in 
the  night — ” 

“ There  were  two  brothers  on  board/5  interposed  his 
nephew,  speaking  very  fast  and  loud,  “ and  there  not 
being  room  for  both  of  them  in  the  only  boat  that  wasn’t 
swamped,  neither  of  them  would  consent  to  go,  until  the 
elder  took  the  younger  by  the  waist,  and  flung  him  in. 
And  then  the  younger,  rising  in  the  boat,  cried  out, 
f Dear  Edward,  think  of  your  promised  wife  at  home. 
I’m  only  a boy.  No  one  waits  at  home  for  me.  Leap 
down  into  my  place  ! ’ and  flung  himself  in  the  sea  ! ” 

The  kindling  eye  and  heightened  colour  of  the  boy, 
who  had  risen  from  his  seat  in  the  earnestness  of  what 
he  said  and  felt,  seemed  to  remind  old  Sol  of  something 
he  had  forgotten,  or  that  his  encircling  mist  had  hitherto 
shut  out.  Instead  of  proceeding  with  any  more  anec- 
dotes, as  he  had  evidently  intended  but  a moment  before, 
he  gave  a short  dry  cough,  and  said,  “Well  ! suppose 
we  change  the  subject.’5 

The  truth  was,  that  the  simple-minded  uncle  in  his 
secret  attraction  towards  the  marvellous  and  adventur- 
ous—of  which  he  was,  in  some  sort,  a distant  relation, 
by  his  trade — had  greatly  encouraged  the  same  attrac- 
tion in  the  nephew  ; and  that  everything  that  had  ever 
been  put  before  the  boy  to  deter  him  from  a life  of  ad- 
venture, had  had  the  usual  unaccountable  effect  of 
sharpening  his  taste  for  it.  This  is  invariable.  It  would 
seem  as  if  there  never  was  a book  written,  or  a story 
told,  expressly  with  the  object  of  keeping  boys  on  shore, 
which  did  not  lure  aud  charm  them  to  the  ocean,  as  a 
matter  of  course. 


376 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


But  an  addition  to  the  little  party  now  made  its  ap- 
pearance, in  the  shape  of  a gentleman  in  a wide  suit  of 
blue,  with  a hook  instead  of  a hand  attached  to  his 
right  wrist  ; very  bushy  black  eyebrows  ; and  a thick 
stick  in  his  left  hand,  covered  all  over  (like  his  nose) 
with  knobs.  He  wore  a loose  black  silk  handkerchief 
round  his  neck,  and  such  a very  large  coarse  shirt  col- 
lar, that  it  looked  like  a small  sail.  He  was  evidently 
the  person  for  whom  the  spare  wine-glass  was  intended, 
and  evidently  knew  it ; for  having  taken  off  his  rough 
outer  coat,  and  hung  up,  on  a particular  peg  behind  the 
door,  such  a hard  glazed  hat  as  a sympathetic  person’s 
head  might  ache  at  the  sight  of,  and  which  left  a red 
rim  round  his  own  forehead  as  if  he  had  been  wearing  a 
tight  basin,  he  brought  a chair  to  where  the  clean  glass 
was,  and  sat  himself  down  behind  it.  He  was  usually 
addressed  as  Captain,  this  visitor  ; and  hacr  been  a pilot, 
or  a skipper,  or  a privateersman,  or  all  three  perhaps  % 
and  was  a very  salt-looking  man  indeed. 

His  face,  remarkable  for  a brown  solidity,  brightened  as 
he  shook  hands  with  uncle  and  nephew  ; but  he  seemed 
to  be  of  a laconic  disposition,  and  merely  said  : 

“ How  goes  it  ? ” 

“ All  well,”  said  Mr.  Gills,  pushing  the  bottle  towards 
him. 

He  took  it  up,  and  having  surveyed  and  smelt  it,  said 
with  extraordinary  expression  : 

> "The?” 

**  The”  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 

Upon  that  he  whistled  as  he  filled  his  glass,  and 
beemed  to  think  they  were  making  holiday  indeed. 

“Wal’r!”  he  said,  arranging  his  hair  (which  was 
thin)  with  his  hook,  and  then  pointing  it  at  the  Instru- 
ment-maker. “ Look  at  him  ! Love  ! Honour  ! And 
Obey  ! Overhaul  your  catechism  till  you  find  that  pas- 
sage, and  when  found  turn  the  leaf  down.  Success  my 
boy  ! ” 

He  was  so  perfectly  satisfied  both  with  his  quotation 
and  his  reference  to  it,  that  he  could  not  help  repeating 
the  words  again  in  a low  voice,  and  saying  lie  had  for- 
gotten ’em  these  forty  year. 

‘‘But  I never  wanted  two  or  three  words  in  my  life 
that  I didn’t  know  where  to  lay  my  hand  upon  ’em, 
Gills,”  he  observed.  “ It  comes  of  not  wasting  lam 
guage  as  some  do.’ 

The  reflection  perhaps  reminded  him  that  he  had  bet- 
ter, like  young  Norval’s  father,  “increase  his  store.” 
At  any  rate  he  became  silent,  and  remained  so  until  old 
Sol  went  out  into  the  shop  to  light  it  up,  when  he 
turned  to  Walter,  and  said,  without  any  introductory 
remark : 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


37? 

€S  I suppose  lie  could  make  a clock  if  lie  tried  ? ” 

44  I shouldn’t  wonder,  Captain  Cuttle,”  returned  the  boy. 

44  And  it  would  go  ! ” said  Captain  Cuttle,  making  a spe- 
cies of  serpent  in  the  air  with  his  hook.  44  Lord,  how 
that  clock  would  go  ! ” 

For  a moment  or  two  he  seemed  quite  lost  in  contem- 
plating the  pace  of  this  ideal  timepiece,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  boy  as  if  his  face  were  the  dial. 

44  But  he’s  chockfull  of  science,”  he  observed,  waving 
his  hook  towards  the  stock-in-trade.  44  Look  ’ye  here  ! 
Here’s  a collection  of  ’em.  Earth,  air,  or  water.  It’s  all 
one.  Only  say  where  you’ll  have  it.  Up  in  a balloon? 
There  you  are.  Down  in  a bell  ? There  you  are.  D'ye 
want  to  put  the  North  Star  in  a pair  of  scales,  and 
weigh  it?  He’ll  do  it  for  you.” 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that  Captain 
Cuttle’s  reverence  for  the  stock  of  instruments  was  pro- 
found, and  that  his  philosophy  knew  little  or  no  distinc- 
tion between  trading  in  it  and  inventing  it. 

44  Ah  ! ” he  said,  with  a sigh,  44  it’s  a fine  thing  to  un- 
derstand ’em.  And  yet  it’s  a fine  thing  not  to  under- 
stand ’em.  I hardly  know  which  is  best.  It’s  so  com- 
fortable to  sit  here  and  feel  that  you  might  be  weighed, 
measured,  magnified,  electrified,  polarized,  played  the 
very  devil  with  : and  never  know  how.” 

Nothing  short  of  the  wonderful  Madeira,  combined 
with  the  occasion  (which  rendered  it  desirable  to  improve 
and  expand  Walter’s  mind),  could  have  ever  loosened 
his  tongue  to  the  extent  of  giving  utterance  to  this 
prodigious  oration.  He  seemed  quite  amazed  himself 
at  the  manner  in  which  it  opened  up  to  view  the  sources 
of  the  taciturn  delight  he  had  had  in  eating  Sunday  din- 
ners in  that  parlour  for  ten  years.  Becoming  a sadder 
and  a wiser  man  he  mused  and  held  his  peace. 

44  Come  !”  cried  the  subject  of  his  admiration,  return, 
ing.  44  Before  you  have  your  glass  of  grog,  Ned,  we 
must  finish  the  bottle.” 

44  Stand  by  ! ” said  Ned,  filling  his  glass.  44  Give  the 
boy  some  more.” 

44  No  more,  thank’e,  uncle  !” 

44 Yes,  yes,”  said  Sol,  “a  little  more.  We’ll  finish 
the  bottle,  to  the  House,  Ned — Walter’s  house.  Why  it 
may  be  his  house  one  of  these  days,  in  part.  Who 
knows  ? Sir  Richard  Whittington  married  his  master’s 
daughter.” 

44  Turn  again  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
and  when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it,” 
interposed  the  Captain.  44  Wal’r  ! Overhaul  the  book, 
my  lad.” 

44  And  although  Mr.  Dombey  hasn’t  a daughter,”  Soi 


878 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Yes,  yes,  lie  lias,  uncle,”  said  tlie  boy,  reddening5 
and  laughing. 

“Has  he?”  cried  the  old  man.  “ Indeed  I think  he 
has  too.” 

“ Oh  ! I know  he  has,”  said  the  hoy.  “ Some  of  ’em 
were  talking  about  it  in  the  office  to-day.  And  they  do 
©ay,  uncle  and  Captain  Cuttle,”  lowering  his  voice, 
“that  he’s  taken  a dislike  to  her,  and  that  she’s  left  un 
noticed,  among  the  servants,  and  that  his  mind’s  so  set 
all  the  while  upon  having  his  son  in  the  House,  that  al- 
though he’s  only  a baby  now  he  is  going  to  have  balances 
struck  oftener  than  formerly,  and  the  books  kept  closer 
than  they  used  to  be,  and  has  even  been  seen  (when  he 
thought  he  wasn’t)  walking  in  the  Hocks  looking  at  his 
ships  and  property  and  all  that,  as  if  he  was  exulting 
like,  over  what  he  and  his  son  will  possess  together. 
That’s  what  they  say.  Of  course /don’t  know.” 

‘‘He  knows  all  about  her  already,  you  see,”  said  the 
Iustrum‘ent-maker. 

“Nonsense,  uncle,”  cried  the  boy,  still  reddening  and 
laughing,  boy-like.  “How  can  I help  hearing  what 
they  tell  me  ? ” 

“The  son’s  a little  in  our  way  at  present,  I’m  afraid* 
Ned,”  said  the  old  man,  humouring  the  joke. 

“Very  much,”  said  the  captain. 

“Nevertheless,  we’ll  drink  him,”  pursued  Sol.  “So 
here’s  to  Hombey  and  Son.” 

“Oh,  very  well,  uncle,”  said  the  boy,  merrily. 
“ Since  you  have  introduced  the  mention  of  her,  and 
have  connected  me  with  her,  and  have  said  that  I know 
all  about  her,  I shall  make  bold  to  amend  the  toast.  So 
here’s  to  Hombey— and  Son — and  Haughter  ! ” 


CHAPTER  V. 

Paul's  Progress  and  Christening . 

Little  Paul,  suffering  no  contamination  from  the 
blood  of  the  Toodles,  grew  stouter  and  stronger  every 
day.  Every  day,  too,  he  was  more  and  more  ardently 
cherished  by  Miss  Tox,  whose  devotion  was  so  far  ap- 
preciated by  Mr.  Hombey  that  he  began  to  regard  her  as 
a woman  of  great  natural  good  sense,  whose  feelings 
did  her  credit  and  deserved  encouragement.  He  was  so 
lavisn  of  this  condescension,  that  he  not  only  be  wed  to 
her,  in  a particular  manner,  on  several  occasions,  but 
even  entrusted  such  stately  recognitions  of  her  to  his 
sister  as  “ pray  Jtell  your  friend,  Louisa,  that  she  is  very 
good,”  or  “mention  to  Miss  Tox,  Louisa,  that  I am 


SO,  HERE’S  TO  DOMBEY — AND  SON — AND  DAUGHTER.1’ 

—Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  379, 


880 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


obliged  to  her  specialities  which  made  a deep  impres- 
sion on  the  lady  thus  distinguished. 

Miss  Tox  was  often  in  the  habit  of  assuring  Mrs.  Chick, 
that  “ nothing  could  exceed  her  interest  in  all  connected 
with  the  development  of  that  sweet  child  ; " and  an  ob, 
server  of  Miss  Tox's  proceedings  might  have  inferred  so 
much  without  declaratory  confirmation.  She  would  pre- 
side over  the  innocent  repasts  of  the  young  heir,  with 
ineffable  satisfaction,  almost  with  an  air  of  joint  pro- 
prietorship with  Richards  in  the  entertainment.  At  the 
little  ceremonies  of  the  bath  and  toilette,  she  assisted 
with  enthusiasm.  The  administration  of  infantine 
doses  of  physic  awakened  all  the  active  sympathy  of  her 
character  ; and  being  on  one  occasion  secreted  in  a cup- 
board (whither  she  had  fled  in  modesty),  when  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  was  introduced  into  the  nursery  by  his  sister,  to 
behold  his  son,  in  the  course  of  preparation  for  bed, 
taking  a short  walk  uphill  over  Richard's  gown,  in  a 
short  and  airy  linen  jacket,  Miss  Tox  was  so  transported 
beyond  the  ignorant  present  as  to  be  unable  to  refrain 
from  crying  out,  “ Is  he  not  beautiful,  Mr.  Dombey  ! 
Is  he  not  a Cupid,  sir  ! " and  then  almost  sinking  behind 
the  closet  door  with  confusion  and  blushes. 

“ Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  one  day,  to  his  sister,  “ I 
really  think  I must  present  your  friend  with  some  little 
token  on  the  occasion  of  Paul's  christening.  She  has  ex- 
erted herself  so  warmly  in  the  child's  behalf  from  the 
first,  and  seems  to  understand  her  position  so  thoroughly 
(a  very  rare  merit  in  this  world,  I am  sorry  to  say),  that 
it  would  really  be  agreeable  to  me  to  notice  her." 

Let  it  be  no  detraction  from  the  merits  of  Miss  Tox,  to 
hint  that  in  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes,  as  in  some  others  that 
occasionally  see  the  light,  they  only  achieved  that  mighty 
piece  of  knowledge,  the  understanding  of  their  own  po- 
sition, who  showed  a fitting  reverence  for  his.  It  was 
not  so  much  their  merit  that  they  knew  themselves,  as 
that  they  knew  him,  and  bowed  low  before  him. 

“ My  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  “ you  do  Miss  Tox 
but  justice,  as  a man  of  your  penetration  was  sure,  I 
knew,  to  do.  I believe  if  there  are  three  words  in  the 
English  language  for  which  she  has  a respect  amount- 
ing almost  to  veneration,  those  words  are,  Dombey  and 
Son." 

“ Well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ I believe  it.  It  does  Miss 
Tox  credit." 

“ And  as  to  anything  in  the  shape  of  a token,  my  dear 
Paul,"  pursued  his  sister,  “ all  I can  say  is  that  anything 
you  give  Miss  Tox  will  be  hoarded  and  prized,  I am  sure, 
like  a relic.  But  there  is  a way,  my  dear  Paul,  of  showing 
your  sense  of  Miss  Tox’s  friendliness  in  a still  more  flat* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


381 


tering  and  acceptable  manner,  if  you  should  be  so  in- 
clined.” 

“ How  is  that  ?”  asked  Mr.  Dornbey. 

“ Godfathers,  of  course,”  continued  Mrs.  Chick,  “are 
important  in  point  of  connexion  and  influence.” 

“I  dor’t  know  why  they  should  be,  to  my  son,”  said 
Mr.  Dombey  coldly. 

“Very  true,  my  dear  Paul,”  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with 
an  extraordinary  show  of  animation,  to  cover  the  sudden- 
ness of  her  conversion  ; “and  spoken  like  yourself.  I 
might  have  expected  nothing  else  from  you.  I might 
have  known  that  such  would  have  been  your  opinion. 
Perhaps  ; ” here  Mrs.  Chick  flattered  again,  as  not  quite 
comfortably  feeling  her  way  ; “ perhaps  that  is  a reason 
why  you  might  have  the  less  objection  to  allowing  Miss 
Tox  to  be  godmother  to  the  dear  thing,  if  it  were  only  as 
deputy  and  proxy  for  some  one  else.  That  it  would  be 
received  as  a great  honour  and  distinction,  Paul,  I need 
not  say.” 

“ Louisa,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  a short  pause,  “ it  is 
not  to  be  supposed — ” 

“ Certainly  not,”  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  hastening  to  antici- 
pate a refusal,  “ I never  thought  it  was.” 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  her  impatiently. 

“ Don’t  flurry  me,  my  dear  Pi  said  his  sister  ; “for 
that  destroys  me.  I am  far  from  strong.  I have  not  been 
quite  myself,  since  poor  dear  Fanny  departed.” 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  pocket-handkerchief  which 
his  sister  applied  to  her  eyes,  and  resumed  : 

“ It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  I say — ” 

“And  I say,”  murmured  Mrs.  Chick,  “that  I never 
thought  it  was.” 

“ Good  Heaven,  Louisa  !”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ No , my  dear  Paul,”  she  remonstrated  with  tearful 
dignity,  “ I must  really  be  allowed  to  speak.  I am  not  so 
clever,  or  so  reasoning,  or  so  eloquent,  or  so  anything,  as 
you  are.  I know  that  very  well.  So  much  the  worse 
for  me.  But  if  they  were  the  last  words  I had  to  utter 
— and  last  words  should  be  very  solemn  to  you  and  me, 
Paul,  after  poor  dear  Fanny — I should  still  say  I never 
thought  it  was.  And  what  is  more,”  added  Mrs.  Chick 
with  increased  dignity,  as  if  she  had  withheld  her  crush- 
ing argument  until  now,  “ I never  did  think  it  was.” 

Mr.  Dombey  walked  to  the  window  and  back  again. 

“ It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  Louisa,”  he  said  (Mrs.  Chick 
bad  nailed  her  colours  to  the  mast,  and  repeated,  “ I know 
it  isn’t,”  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it),  “ but  that  there  are 
many  persons  who,  supposing  that  I recognized  any  claim 
at  all  in  such  a case,  have  a claim  upon  me  superior  to 
Miss  Tox’s.  But  I do  not.  I recognize  no  such  thing, 
Paul  and  myself  will  be  able,  when  the  time  comes,  to 


882 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


hold  our  own — the  house,  in  other  words,  will  be  able  to 
hold  its  own,  and  maintain  its  own,  and  hand  down  its 
own  of  itself,  and  without  any  such  common-place  aids. 
The  kind  of  foreign  help  which  people  usually  seek  for 
their  children,  I can  afford  to  despise  ; being  above  it, 
I hope.  Bo  that  Paul's  infancy  and  childhood  pass  away 
well,  and  I see  him  becoming  qualified  without  waste  of 
time  for  the  career  on  which  he  is  destined  to  enter,  I am 
satisfied.  He  will  make  what  powerful  friends  he  pleases 
in  after-life,  when  he  is  actively  maintaining — and  ex- 
tending, if  that  is  possible— the  dignity  and  credit  of  the 
Firm.  Until  then,  I am  enough  for  him,  perhaps,  and  all 
in  all.  I have  no  wish  that  people  should  step  in  be- 
tween us.  I would  much  rather  show  my  sense  of  the 
obliging  conduct  of  a deserving  person  like  your  friend. 
Therefore  let  it  be  so  ; and  your  husband  and  myself 
will  do  well  enough  for  the  other  sponsors,  I dare  say.” 

In  the  course  of  these  remarks,  delivered  with  great 
majesty  and  grandeur,  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  revealed 
the  secret  feelings  of  his  breast.  An  indescribable  dis- 
trust of  anybody  stepping  in  between  himself  and  his 
son  ; a haughty  dread  of  having  any  rival  or  partner  in 
the  boy’s  respect  and  deference  ; a sharp  misgiving,  re- 
cently acquired,  that  he  was  not  infallible  in  his  power 
of  bending  and  binding  human  wills  ; as  sharp  a jeal- 
ousy of  any  second  check  or  cross  ; these  wrere,  at  that 
time,  the  master  keys  of  his  soul.  In  all  his  life  he  had 
never  made  a friend.  His  cold  and  distant  nature  had 
neither  sought  one,  nor  found  one.  And  now  when  that 
nature  concentrated  its  whole  force  so  strongly  on  a 
partial  scheme  of  parental  interest  and  ambition,  it 
seemed  as  if  its  icy  current,  instead  of  being  released  by 
this  influence,  and  running  clear  and  free,  had  thawed 
for  but  an  instant  to  admit  its  burden,  and  then  frozen 
with  it  into  one  unyielding  block. 

Elevated  thus  to  the  godmothersliip  of  little  Paul,  in 
virtue  of  her  insignificance.  Miss  Tox  was  from  that 
hour  chosen  and  appointed  to  office ; and  Mr.  Dombey 
further  signified  his  pleasure  that  the  ceremony,  already 
long  delayed,  should  take  place  without  further  post- 
ponement. His  sister,  who  had  been  far  from  anticipat- 
ing so  signal  a success,  withdrew  as  soon  as  she  could, 
to  communicate  it  to  her  best  of  friends  ; and  Mr. 
Dombey  was  left  alone  in  his  library. 

There  was  anything  but  solitude  in  the  nursery  ; for 
there,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  enjoying  a social 
evening,  so  much  to  the  disgust  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper 
that  that  young  lady  embraced  every  opportunity  of 
making  wry  faces  behind  the  door.  Her  feelings  were 
so  much  excited  on  the  occasion,  that  she  found  it  in- 
dispensable to  afford  them  this  relief,  even  without 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


883 


having  the  comfort  of  any  audience  or  sympathy  what- 
ever. As  the  knight-errants  of  old  relieved  their  minds 
by  carving  their  mistress’s  names  in  deserts  and  wilder-  • 
nesses,  and  other  savage  places  where  there  was  no 
probability  of  there  ever  being  anybody  to  read  them, 
so  did  Miss  Susan  Nipper  curl  her  snub  nose  into 
drawers  and  wardrobes,  put  away  winks  of  disparage- 
ment in  cupboards,  shed  derisive  squints  into  stono 
pitchers,  and  contradict  and  call  names  out  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

The  two  interlopers,  however,  blissfully  unconscious 
of  the  young  lady’s  sentiments,  saw  little  Paul  safe 
through  all  the  stages  of  undressing,  airy  exercise, 
supper  and  bed  ; and  then  sat  down  to  tea  before  the 
fire.  The  two  children  now  lay,  through  the  good  offi- 
ces of  Polly,  in  one  room  ; and  it  was  not  until  the  ladies 
were  established  at  their  tea-table  that  happening  to 
look  towards  the  little  beds,  they  thought  of  Florence. 

“ How  sound  she  sleeps  ! ” said  Miss  Tox. 

Why,  you  know  my  dear,  she  takes  a great  deal  of 
exercise  in  the  course  of  the  day,”  returned  Mrs.  Chick, 

“ playing  about  little  Paul  so  much.” 

“ She  is  a curious  child,”  said  Miss  Tox. 

“My  dear,”  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a low  voice: 

€i  Her  mama,  all  over  ! ” 

**  In-deed  !”  said  Miss  Tox.  “ Ah  dear  me  !” 

A tone  of  most  extraordinary  compassion  Miss  Tox 
said  it  in,  though  she  had  no  distinct  idea  why,  except 
that  it  was  expected  of  her. 

“ Florence  will  never,  never,  never,  be  a Dombey,”  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  “ not  if  she  lives  to  be  a thousand  years  old.” 

Miss  Tox  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  was  again  full  of 
commiseration. 

“ I quite  fret  and  worry  myself  about  her,”  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  a sigh  of  modest  merit.  “ I really  don’t 
see  what  is  to  become  of  her  when  she  grows  older,  or 
what  position  she  is  to  take.  She  don’t  gain  on  her 
papa  in  the  least.  How  can  one  expect  she  should, 
when  she  is  so  very  unlike  a Dombey  ? ” 

Miss  Tox  looked  as  if  she  saw  no  way  out  of  such  a 
cogent  argument  as  that  at  all. 

“ And  the  child,  you  see,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  deep 
confidence,  “has  poor  Fanny’s  nature.  She’ll  never 
make  an  effort  in  after-life,  I’ll  venture  to  say.  Never  ! 
She’ll  never  wind  and  twine  herself  about  her  papa’s 
heart  like — ” 

“ Like  the  ivy  ? ” suggested  Miss  Tox. 

“Like  the  ivy,”  Mrs.  Chick  assented.  “Never! 
She’ll  never  glide  and  nestle  into  the  bosom  of  her  papa’s 
affections  like— -the— ” 


384 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Startled  fawn  ?”  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

“ Like  the  startled  fawn,”  said  Mrs.  Chick.  “ Never! 
• Poor  Fanny  ! Yet  how  I loved  her  ! ” 

“ You  must  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear,”  said  Miss 
Tox,  in  a soothing  voice.  “Now,  really!  You  have 
too  much  feeling.  ” 

“ We  have  all  our  faults,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  weeping 
and  shaking  her  head.  “ I dare  say  we  have.  I never 
was  blind  to  hers.  I never  said  I was.  Far  from  it, 
Yet  how  I loved  her  ! ” 

What  a satisfaction  it  was  to  Mrs.  Chick — a common- 
place piece  of  folly  enough,  compared  with  whom  her 
sister-in-law  had  been  a very  angel  of  womanly  intelli- 
gence and  gentleness — to  patronise  and  be  tender  to  the 
memory  of  that  lady  : in  exact  pursuance  of  her  conduct 
to  her  in  her  life-time  ; and  to  thoroughly  believe  her- 
self, and  take  herself  in,  and  make  herself  uncommonly 
comfortable  on  the  strength  of  her  toleration  ! What  a 
mighty  pleasant  virtue  toleration  should  be  when  we  are 
right,  to  be  so  very  pleasant  when  we  are  wrong,  and 
quite  unable  to  demonstrate  how  we  come  to  be  invested 
with  the  privilege  of  exercising  it  ! 

Mrs.  Chick  was  yet  drying  her  eyes  and  shaking  her 
head,  when  Richards  made  bold  to  caution  her  that  Miss 
Florence  was  awake  and  sitting  in  her  bed.  She  had 
risen,  as  the  nurse  said,  and  the  lashes  of  her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears.  But  no  one  saw  them  glistening  save 
Polly.  No  one  else  leant  over  her,  and  whispered  sooth- 
ing words  to  her,  or  wTas  near  enough  to  hear  the  flutter 
of  her  beating  heart. 

“ Oh  ! dear  nurse  1 ” said  the  child,  looking  earnestly 
up  in  her  face,  “ let  me  lie  by  my  brother  !” 

“ Why,  my  pet?”  said  Richards. 

“Oh  ! I think  he  loves  me,”. cried  the  child  wildly. 
l<  Let  me  lie  by  him.  Pray  do  ! ” 

Mrs.  Chick  interposed  with  some  motherly  words 
about  going  to  sleep  like  a dear,  but  Florence  repeated 
her  supplication,  with  a frightened  look,  and  in  a voice 
broken  by  sobs  and  tears. 

“PH  not  wake  him,”  she  said,  cover  lag  her  face  and 
hanging  down  her  head.  “ I’ll  only  touch  him  with  my 
hand,  and  go  to  sleep.  Oh,  pray,  pray,  let  me  lie  by  my 
brother,  to-night,  *for  I believe  lie  is  fond  of  me  ! ” ' 

Richards  took  her  without  a word,  and  carrying  her  to 
the  little  bed  in  which  the  infant  was  sleeping,  laid  her 
down  by  his  side.  She  crept  as  near  as  she  could  with- 
out disturbing  his  rest  ; and  stretching  out  one  arm  so 
that  it  timidly  embraced  his  neck,  and  hiding  her  face 
on  the  other,  over  which  her  damp  and  scattered  hair 
lell  loose,  lay  motionless 


DOMBEY  AND  SON 


885 


“Toor  little  thing,”  said  Miss  Tox  ; “she  has  been 
dreaming,  I dare  say.” 

This  trivial  incident  had  so  interrupted  the  current  of 
conversation,  that  it  was  difficult  of  resumption  ; and 
Mrs.  Chick  moreover  had  been  so  affected  by  the  con- 
templation of  her  own  tolerant  nature,  that  she  was  not 
in  spirits.  The  two  friends  accordingly  soon  made  an 
end  of  their  tea,  and  a servant  was  despatched  to  fetch 
a hackney  cabriolet  for  Miss  Tox.  Miss  Tox  had  great 
experience  in  hackney  cabs,  and  her  starting  in  one  was 
generally  a work  of  time,  as  she  v/as  systematic  in  the 
preparatory  arrangements. 

“ Have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,”  said 
Miss  Tox,  “ first  of  all  to  carry  out  a pen  and  ink  and 
take  his  number  legibly.” 

“Yes,  miss,”  said  Towlinson. 

“ Then  if  you  please,  Towlinson,”  said  Miss  Tox, 
“ have  the  goodness  to  turn  the  cushion.  Which,”  said 
Miss  Tox  apart  to  Mrs.  Chick,  “ is  generally  damp,  my 
dear.  ” 

“Yes,  miss,”  said  Towlinson. 

“ Fll  trouble  you  also,  if  you  please,”  said  Miss  Tox, 
“ with  this  card  and  this  shilling.  He’s  to  drive  to  the 
card,  and  is  to  understand  that  he  will  not  on  any  ac- 
count have  more  than  the  shilling.” 

“ No,  miss,”  said  Towlinson. 

“And — I’m  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Tow- 
linson,”— said  Miss  Tox,  looking  at  him  pensively. 

“ Not  at  all,  miss,”  said  Towlinson. 

“ Mention  to  the  man,  then,  if  you  please,  Towlin- 
son,” said  Miss  Tox,  “ that  the  lady’s  uncle  is  a magis- 
trate, and  that  if  he  gives  her  any  of  his  impertinence  he 
will  be  punished  terribly.  You  can  pretend  to  say  that, 
if  you  please,  Towlinson,  in  a friendly  way,  and  because 
you  know  it  was  done  to  another  man,  who  died.  ” 

“ Certainly,  miss,”  said  Towlinson. 

“ And  now  good  night  to  my  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
godson,”  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a soft  shower  of  kisses  at 
each  repetition  of  the  adjective  ; “ and  Louisa,  my  dear 
friend,  promise  me  to  take  a little  something  warm  b© 
fore  you  go  to  bed,  and  not  to  distress  yourself  ! ” 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  Nipper,  the  black- 
eyed,  who  looked  on  steadfastly,  contained  herself  at 
this  crisis,  and,  until  the  subsequent  departure  of  Mrs. 
Chick.  But  the  nursery  being  at  length  free  of  visitors, 
she  made  herself  some  recompense  for  her  late  restraint. 

“You  might  keep  me  in  a strait  waistcoat  for  six 
weeks,”  said  Nipper,  “and  when  I got  it  off  I’d  only  be 
more  aggravated,  who  ever  heard  the  like  of  them  two 
Griffins.  Mrs.  Richards?” 

' -Q 


VOL.  11 


386 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ And  then  to  talk  of  having  been  dreaming,  poo* 
dear  ! ” said  Polly. 

“Oh  you  beauties  ! " cried  Susan  Nipper,  affecting  to 
salute  the  door  by  which  the  ladies  had  departed. 
“ Never  be  a Dombey,  won't  she,  it's  to  be  hoped  she 
won't,  we  don't  want  any  more  such,  one's  enough." 

“ Don't  wake  the  children,  Susan  dear,"  said  Polly. 

“I'm  very  much  beholden  to  you,  Mrs.  Richards," 
said  Susan,  who  was  not  by  any  means  discriminating 
in  her  wrath,  “ and  really  feel  it  as  a honour  to  receive 
your  commands,  being  a black  slave  and  a mulotter. 
Mrs.  Richards,  if  there's  any  other  orders  you  can  give 
me,  pray  mention  'em." 

“Nonsense  ; orders,"  said  Polly. 

“Oh  ! bless  your  heart,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Susan, 
“ temporaries  always  orders  permanencies  here,  didn't 
you  know  that,  why  wherever  was  you  born,  Mrs. 
Richards?  But  wherever  you  was  born,  Mrs.  Richards," 
pursued  Spitfire,  shaking  her  head  resolutely,  “and 
whenever,  and  however  (which  is  best  known  to  your- 
self), you  may  bear  in  mind,  please,  that  it's  one  thing 
to  give  orders,  and  quite  another  thing  to  take  ’em.  A 
person  may  tell  another  person,  to  dive  off  a bridge  head 
foremost  into  five-and-forty  feet  of  water,  Mrs.  Richards, 
but  a person  may  be  very  far  from  diving." 

“ There  now,"  said  Polly,  “ you're  angry  because 
you're  a good  little  thing,  and  fond  of  Miss  Florence  ; 
and  yet  you  turn  round  on  me,  because  there’s  nobody 
else." 

“ It's  very  easy  for  some  to  keep  their  tempers,  and 
be  soft-spoken,  Mrs.  Richards,"  returned  Susan,  slightly 
mollified,  “when  their  child's  made  as  much  of  as  a 
prince,  and  is  petted  and  patted  till  it  wishes  its  friends 
further,  but  when  a sweet  young  pretty  innocent,  that 
never  ought  to  have  a cross  word  spoken  to  or  of  it,  is 
run  down,  the  case  is  very  difficult  indeed.  My  goodness 
gracious  me.  Miss.  Floy,  you  naughty,  sinful  child,  if 
you  don't  shut  your  eyes  this  minute,  I'll  call  in  them 
hob-goblins  that  lives  in  the  cock-loft  to  come  and  eat 
you  up  alive  ! " 

Here  Miss  Nipper  made  a horrible  lowing,  supposed 
to  issue  from  a conscientious  goblin  of  the  bull  species, 
impatient  to  discharge  the  severe  duty  of  his  position. 
Having  further  composed  her  young  charge  by  covering 
her  head  with  the  bed  clothes,  and  making  three  or 
four  angry  dabs  at  the  pillow,  she  folded  her  arms,  and 
screwed  up  her  mouth,  and  sat  looking  at  the  fire  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Though  little  Paul  was  said,  in  nursery  phrase,  “ to 
take  a deal  of  notice  for  his  age,"  he  took  as  little-notice 
of  all  this  as  of  the  preparations  for  his  christening  on 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


38? 


the  next  day  but  one  ; which  nevertheless  went  on  about 
him,  as  to  his  personal  apparel,  and  that  of  his  sister 
and  the  two  nurses,  with  great  activity.  Neither  did 
he,  on  the  arrival  of  the  appointed  morning,  show  any 
sense  of  its  importance  ; being,  on  the  contrary,  unusually 
inclined  to  sleep,  and  unusually  inclined  to  take  it  ill  in 
his  attendants  that  they  dressed  him  to  go  out. 

It  happened  to  be  an  iron-grey  autumnal  day,  with  a 
shrewd  east  wind  blowing — a day  in  keeping  with  the 
proceedings.  Mr.  Dombey  represented  in  himself  the 
wind,  the  shade,  and  the  autumn  of  the  christening. 
He  stood  in  his  library  to  receive  the  company,  as  hard 
and  cold  as  the  weather ; and  when  he  looked  out 
through  the  gla-^  room,  at  the  trees  in  the  little  garden, 
their  brown  and  yellow  leaves  came  fluttering  down,  as 
if  he  blighted  them. 

Ugh  ! They  were  black,  cold  rooms  ; and  seemed  to 
be  in  mourning,  like  the  inmates  of  the  house.  The 
books  precisely  matched  as  to  size,  and  drawn  up  in 
line,  like  soldiers,  looked  in  their  cold,  hard,  slippery 
uniforms,  as  if  they  had  but  one  idea  among  them,  and 
that  was  a freezer.  The  bookcase,  glazed,  and  locked, 
repudiated  all  familiarities.  Mr.  Pitt,  in  bronze  on  the 
top,  with  no  trace  of  his  celestial  origin  about  him, 
guarded  the  unattainable  treasure  like  an  enchanted 
Moor.  A dusty  urn  at  each  high  corner,  dug  up  from  an 
ancient  tomb,  preached  desolation  and  decay  as  from  two 
pulpits  ; and  the  chimney-glass,  reflecting  Mr.  Dombey 
and  his  portrait  at  one  blow,  seemed  fraught  with  mel- 
ancholy meditations. 

The  stiff  and  stark  fire-irons  appeared  to  claim  a nearer 
relationship  than  anything  else  there  to  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  his  buttoned  coat,  his  white  cravat,  his  heavy  gold 
watch-chain,  and  his  creaking  boots.  But  this  was 
before  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick,  his  lawful  rel- 
atives, who  soon  presented  themselves. 

“ My  dear  Paul, ” Mrs.  Chick  murmured,  as  she  em- 
braced him,  “ the  beginning,  I hope,  of  many  joyful 
days  ! ” 

“ Thank  you,  Louisa/’  said  Mr.  Dombey,  grimly. 
“ How  do  you  do,  Mr.  John?” 

“ How  do  you  do,  sir,”  said  Chick. 

He  gave  Mr.  Dombey  his  hand,  as  if  he  feared  it 
might  electrify  him.  Mr.  Dombey  took  it  as  if  it  were  a 
fish,  or  seaweed,  or  some  such  clammy  substance,  and 
immediately  returned  it  to  him  with  exalted  politeness. 

“ Perhaps,  Louisa,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  slightly  turn- 
ing his  head  in  his  cravat,  as  if  it  were  a socket,  “you 
would  have  preferred  a fire  ? ” 

“ Oh,  my  dear  Paul,  no,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  had 


388 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


much  ado  to  keep  lier  teeth  from  chattering  ; ee  not  for 
me.” 

“ Mr.  John,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ you  are  not  sensible 
of  any  chill  ? ” 

Mr.  John,  who  had  already  got  both  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  over  the  wrists,  and  was  on  the  very  threshold 
of  that  same  canine  chorus  which  had  given  Mrs.  Chick 
so  much  offence  on  a former  occasion,  protested  that  he 
was  perfectly  comfortable. 

He  added  in  a low  voice,  “With  my  tiddle  tol  toor 
rul  ” — when  he  was  providentially  stopped  by  Towlin- 
son,  who  announced  : 

“ Miss  Tox  ! ” 

And  enter  that  fair  enslaver,  with  a blue  nose  and  in- 
describably frosty  face,  referable  to  her  being  very 
thinly  clad  in  a maze  of  fluttering  odds  and  ends,  to  do 
honour  to  the  ceremony. 

“ How  do  you  do.  Miss  Tox  ?”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Miss  Tox  in  the  midst  of  her  spreading  gauzes,  went 
down  altogether  like  an  opera-glass  shutting  up  ; she 
curtseyed  so  low,  in  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
advancing  a step  or  two  to  meet  her. 

“I  can  never  forget  this  occasion,  sir,”  said  Miss 
Tox,  softly.  “ 'Tis  impossible.  My  dear  Louisa,  I can 
hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  my  senses.” 

If  Miss  Tox  could  believe  the  evidence  of  one  of  her 
senses,  it  was  a very  cold  day.  That  was  quite  clear. 
She  took  an  early  opportunity  of  promoting  the  clrcula* 
tion  in  the  tip  of  her  nose  by  secretly  chafing  it  with  her 
pocket-handkerchief,  lest,  by  its  very  low  temperature, 
it  should  disagreeably  astonish  the  baby  when  she  came 
to  kiss  it. 

The  baby  soon  appeared,  carried  in  great  glory  by 
Richards  ; wThile  Florence,  in  custody  of  that  active 
yonng  constable,  Susan  Nipper,  brought  up  the  rear. 
Though  the  whole  nursery  party  were  dressed  by  this 
time  in  lighter  mourning  than  at  first,  there  was  enough 
in  the  appearance  of  the  bereaved  children  to  make  the 
day  no  brighter.  The  baby  too — it  might  have  been 
Miss  Tox’s  nose — began  to  cry.  Thereby,  as  it  happened, 
preventing  Mr.  Chick  from  the  awkward  fulfilment  of 
a very  honest  purpose  he  had  ; which  was,  to  make 
much  of  Florence.  For  this  gentleman,  insensible  to  the 
superior  claims  of  a perfect  Dombey  (perhaps  on  account 
of  having  the  honour  to  be  united  to  a Dombey  himself, 
and  being  familiar  with  excellence),  really  liked  her, 
and  showed  that  he  liked  her,  and  was  about  to  show  it 
in  his  own  way  now,  when  Paul  cried,  and  his  helpmate 
stopped  him  short. 

“Now  Florence  child  ! ” said  her  aunt,  briskly,  “ what 


MR.  DOMBEY  DISMOUNTING  FIRST  TO  HELP  THE  LADIES  OUT. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Eleven;  page  389 


390 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


are  you  doing,  love  ? Show  yourself  to  him.  Engage 
Ms  attention,  my  dear  ! ” 

The  atmosphere  became,  or  might  have  become,  colder 
and  colder,  when  Mr.  Dombey  stood  frigidly  watching 
his  little  daughter,  who,  clapping  her  hands,  and  stand- 
ing on  tip-toe  before  the  throne  of  his  son  and  heir, 
lured  him  to  bend  down  from  his  high  estate,  and  look 
at  her.  Some  honest  act  of  Richards’  may  have  aided 
the  effect,  but  he  did  look  down,  and  held  his  peace. 
As  his  sister  hid  behind  her  nurse,  he  followed  her  with 
his  eyes  ; and  when  she  peeped  out  with  a merry  cry  to 
him,  he  sprang  up  and  crowed  lustily — laughing  out- 
right when  she  ran  in  upon  him  ; and  seeming  to  fondle 
her  curls  with  his  tiny  hands,  while  she  smothered  him 
with  kisses. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this  ? He  testified 
no  pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a nerve  ; but  outward 
tokens  of  any  kind  of  feeling  were  unusual  with  him. 
If  any  sunbeam  stole  into  the  room  to  light  the  children 
at  their  play,  it  never  reached  his  face.  He  looked  on 
so  fixedly  and  coldly,  that  the  warm  light  vanished  even 
from  the  laughing  eyes  of  little  Florence,  when,  at  last, 
they  happened  to  meet  his. 

It  was  a dull,  grey,  autumn  day  indeed,  and  in  a 
minute’s  pause  and  silence  that  took  place,  the  leaves 
fell  sorrowfully. 

“ Mr.  John,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  referring  to  his  watch, 
and  assuming  his  hat  and  gloves.  “ Take  my  sister,  if 
you  please  : my  arm  to-day  is  Miss  Tox’s.  You  had  bet- 
ter go  first  with  Master  Paul,  Richards.  Be  very  care- 
ful.” 

In  Mr.  Dombey’s  carriage,  Dombey  and  Son,  Miss 
Tox,  Mrs.  Chick,  Richards,  and  Florence.  In  a little 
carriage  following  it,  Susan  Nipper  and  the  owner  Mr. 
Chick.  Susan  looking  out  of  window,  without  inter- 
mission, as  a relief  from  the  embarrassment  of  confront- 
ing the  large  face  of  that  gentleman,  and  thinking 
whenever  anything  rattled  that  he  was  putting  up  in 
paper  an  appropriate  pecuniary  compliment  for  herself. 

Once  upon  the  road  to  church,  Mr.  Dombey  clapped 
his  hands  for  the  amusement  of  his  son.  At  which  in- 
stance of  parental  enthusiasm  Miss  Tox  was  enchanted. 
But  exclusive  of  this  incident,  the  chief  difference  be- 
tween the  christening  party  and  a party  in  a mourning 
coach,  consisted  in  the  colours  of  the  carriage  and  horses. 

Arrived  at  the  church  steps,  they  were  received  by  a 
portentous  beadle.  Mr.  Dombey  dismounting  first  to 
help  the  ladies  out,  and  standing  near  him  at  the  church 
door,  looked  like  another  beadle.  A beadle  less  gor. 
geous,  but  more  dreadful  ; the  beadle  of  private  life  j 
fcbe  beadle  of  our  business  and  our  bosoms. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


391 


Miss  Tox's  "hand  trembled  as  slie  slipped  it  through 
Mr.  Dombey's  arm,  and  felt  herself  escorted  up  the 
steps,  preceded  by  a cocked  liat  and  a Babylonian  collar 
it  seemed  for  a moment  like  that  other  solemn  institu 
tion,  44  Wilt  thou  have  this  man,  Lucretia?”  44  Yes,  1 
will.” 

44  Please  to  bring  the  child  in  quick  out  of  the  air 
there,”  whispered  the  beadle,  holding  open  the  inner 
door  of  the  church. 

Little  Paul  might. have  asked  with  Hamlet  44  into  my 
grave?”  so  chill  and  earthy  was  the  place.  The  tall 
shrouded  pulpit  and  reading-desk  ; the  dreary  perspect- 
ive of  empty  pews  stretching  away  under  the  galleries, 
and  empty  benches  mounting  to  the  roof  and  lost  in  the 
shadow  of  the  great  grim  organ  ; the  dusty  matting  and 
cold  stone  slabs  ; the  grisly  free  seats  in  the  aisles  ; and 
the  damp  corner  by  the  bell-rope,  where  the  black  tres- 
sels  used  for  funerals  were  stowed  away,  along  with 
some  shovels  and  baskets,  and  a coii  or  two  of  deadly- 
looking  rope  ; the  strange,  unusual,  uncomfortable  smell, 
and  the  cadaverous  light  ; were  all  in  unison.  It  was  a 
cold  and  dismal  scene. 

44  There's  a wedding  just  on,  sir,”  said  the  beadlef 
44  but  itTl  be  over  directly,  if  youTl  walk  into  the  westr^ 
here.” 

Before  he  turned  again  to  lead  the  way,  he  gave  Mr. 
Dbmbey  a bow  and' a half  smile  of  recognition,  importing 
that  he  (the  beadle)  remembered  to  have  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  attending  on  him  when  he  buried  his  wife,  and 
hoped  he  had  enjoyed  himself  since. 

The  very  wedding  looked  dismal  as  they  passed  in 
front  of  the  altar.  The  bride  was  too  old  and  the  bride- 
groom too  young,  and  a superannuated  beau  with  one 
eye  and  an  eye-glass  stuck  in  its  blank  companion,  was 
giving  away  the  lady,  while  the  friends  were  shivering. 
In  the  vestry  the  fire  was  smoking  ; and  an  over-aged 
and  over- worked  and  under-paid  attorney's  clerk, 44  mak- 
ing a search,”  was  running  his  fore-finger  down  the 
parchment  pages  of  an  immense  register  (one  of  a long 
series  of  similar  volumes)  gorged  with  burials.  Over 
the  fireplace  was  a ground-plan  of  the  vaults  underneath 
the  church  ; and  Mr.  Chick,  skimming  the  literary  por- 
tion of  it  aloud,  by  way  of  enlivening  the  company,  read 
the  reference  to  Mrs.  Dombey’s  tomb  in  full,  before  he 
could  stop  himself. 

After  another  cold  interval,  a wheezy  little  pew-opener 
afflicted  with  an  asthma,  appropriate  to  the  church-yard, 
if  not  to  the  church,  summoned  them  to  the  font.  Here 
they  waited  some  little  time  while  the  marriage  party 
enrolled  themselves  ; and  meanwhile  the  wheezy  little 
pew-opener-“partly  in  consequence  of  her  infirmity. 


392 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  partly  that  the  marriage  party  might  not  forget 
her — went  about  the  building  coughing  like  a gram- 
pus. 

Presently  the  clerk  (the  only  cheerful-looking  object 
there,  and  he  was  an  undertaker)  came  up  with  a j ug  of 
warm  water,  and  said  something,  as  he  poured  it  into 
the  font,  about  taking  the  chill  off ; which  millions  of 
gallons  boiling  hot  could  not  have  done  for  the  occasion. 
Then  the  clergyman,  an  amiable  and  mild-looking  young 
curate,  but  obviously  afraid  of  the  baby,  appeared  like 
the  principal  character  in  a ghost-story,  <f  a tall  figure 
kll  in  white  at  sight  of  whom  Paul  rent  the  air  with 
his  cries,  and  never  left  off  again  till  he  was  taken  out 
black  in  the  face. 

Even  when  that  event  had  happened,  to  the  great  re- 
lief of  everybody,  he  was  heard  under  the  portico,  during 
the  rest  of  the  ceremony,  now  fainter,  now  louder,  now 
hushed,  now  bursting  forth  again  with  an  irrepressible 
sense  of  his  wrongs.  This  so  distracted  the  attention  of 
the  two  ladies,  that  Mrs.  Chick  was  constantly  deploy- 
ing into  the  centre  aisle,  to  send  out  messages  by  the 
pew-opener,  while  Miss  Tox  kept  her  prayer-book  open 
at  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  and  occasionally  read  responses 
from  that  service. 

During  the  whole  of  these  proceedings,  Mr.  Dombey 
remained  as  impassive  and  gentlemanly  as  ever,  and 
perhaps  assisted  in  making  it  so  cold,  that  the  young 
curate  smoked  at  the  mouth  as  he  read.  The  only  time 
that  he  unbent  his  visage  in  the  least,  was  when  the 
clergyman,  in  delivering  (very  unaffectedly  and  simply) 
the  closing  exhortation,  relative  to  the  future  examina- 
tion of  the  child  by  the  sponsors,  happened  to  rest  his 
eye  on  Mr.  Chick  ; and  then  Mr.  Dombey  might  have 
been  seen  to  express  by  a majestic  look,  that  he  would 
like  to  catch  him  at  it. 

It  might  have  been  well  for  Mr.  Dombey,  if  he  had 
thought  of  his  own  dignity  a little  less  ; and  had  thought 
of  the  great  origin  and  purpose  of  the  ceremony  m which 
he  took  so  formal  and  so  stiff  a part,  a little  more.  His 
arrogance  contrasted  strangely  with  its  history. 

When  it  was  all  over  he  again  gave  his  arm  to  Miss  Tox, 
and  conducted  her  to  the  vestry,  where  he  informed  the 
clergyman  how  much  pleasure  it  would  have  given  him 
to  have  solicited  the  honour  of  his  company  at  dinner, 
but  for  the  unfortunate  state  of  his  household  affairs. 
The  register  signed,  and  the  fees  paid,  and  the  pew- 
opener  (whose  cough  was  very  bad  again)  remembered, 
and  the  beadle  gratified,  and  the  sexton  (who  was  acci- 
dentally on  the  door-steps,  looking  with  great  interest 
at  the  weather)  not  forgotten,  they  got  into  the  carriage 
again,  and  drove  home  in  the  same  bleak  fellowship. 


DOMBEY  A ND  SQSl. 


393 


There  they  found  Mr.  Pitt  turning  up  his  nose  at  a 
cold  collation,  set  forth  in  a cold  pomp  of  glass  and  silver, 
and  looking  more  like  a dead  dinner  lying  in  state  than 
a social  refreshment.  On  their  arrival,  Miss  Tox  pro- 
duced a mug  for  her  godson,  and  Mr.  Chick  a knife  and 
fork  and  spoon  in  a case.  Mr.  Dombey  also  produced  a 
bracelet  for  Miss  Tox  ; and,  on  the  receipt  of  this  token. 
Miss  Tox  was  tenderly  affected. 

“ Mr.  John/’  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ will  you  take  the 
bottom  of  the  table,  if  you  please.  What  have  you  got 
there,  Mr.  John  ? ” 

“ I have  got  a cold  fillet  of  veal  here,  sir,”  replied  Mr. 
Chick,  rubbing  his  numbed  hands  hard  together.  What 
have  you  got  there,  sir  ?” 

“ This,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  “ is  some  cold  prepara- 
tion of  calf’s,  head,  I think.  I see  cold  fowls— ham- 
patties — salad — lobster.  Miss  Tox  will  do  me  the  hon- 
our of  taking  some  wine?  Champagne  to  Miss  Tox.” 

There  was  a toothache  in  everything.  The  wine  was  so 
bitter  cold  that  it  forced  a little  scream  from  Miss  Tox, 
which  she  had  great  difficulty  in  turning  into  a “ Hem  ! ” 
The  veal  had  come  from  such  an  airy  pantry,  that  the 
first  taste  of  it  had  struck  a sensation  as  of  cold  lead  to 
Mr.  Chick’s  extremities.  Mr.  Dombey  alone  remained 
unmoved.  He  might  have  been  hung  up  for  sale  at  a 
Russian  fair  as  a specimen  of  a frozen  gentleman. 

The  prevailing  influence  was  .too  much  even  for  his 
sister.  She  made  no  effort  at  flattery  or  small-talk,  and 
directed  all  her  efforts  to  looking  as  warm  as  she  could. 

“ Well,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Chick,  making  a desperate 
plunge,  after  a long  silence,  and  filling  a glass  of 
sherry  ; “ I shall  drink  this,  if  you’ll  allow  me,  sir,  to 
little  Paul.” 

“Bless  him!”  murmured  Miss  Tox,  taking  a sip  of 
wine. 

‘ ‘ Dear  little  Dombey  ! ” murmured  Mrs.  Chick. 

“Mr.  John,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  severe  gravity, 
“my  son  would  feel  and  express  himself  obliged  to  you, 
I have  no  doubt,  if  he  could  appreciate  the  favour  you 
have  done  him.  He  will  prove,  in  time  to  come,  I trust, 
equal  to  any  responsibility  that  the  obliging  disposition 
of  his  relations  and  friends,  in  private,  or  the  onerous 
nature  of  our  position,  in  public,  may  impose  upon 
him.” 

. The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  admitting  of  nothing 
more,  Mr.  Chick  relapsed  into  low  spirits  and  silence. 
Not  so  Miss  Tox,  who,  having  listened  to  Mr.  Dombey 
with  even  a more  emphatic  attention  than  usual,  and 
with  a more  expressive  tendency  of  her  head  to  on© 
side,  now  leant  across  the  table,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Chick 
qoftly  : 


394 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Louisa  !” 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

“ Onerous  nature  of  our  position  in  public  may — 1 
have  forgotten  the  exact  term.  ” 

“ Expose  him  to,”  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

“ Pardon  me,  my  dear,”  returned  Miss  Tox,  “I  think 
not.  It  was  more  rounded  and  flowing.  Obliging  dis- 
position of  relations  and  friends  in  private,  or  onerous 
nature  of  position  in  public — may — impose  upon  him?” 

“Impose  upon  him,  to  be  sure,”  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox  struck  her  delicate  hands  together  lightly, 
in  triumph  ; and  added,  casting  up  her  eyes,  “ eloquence 
indeed  ! ” 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  issued  orders  for 
the  attendance  of  Richards,  who  now  entered  courtesy- 
ing,  but  without  the  baby  ; Paul  being  asleep  after  the 
fatigues  of  the  morning.  Mr.  Dombey,  having  deliv- 
ered a glass  of  wine  to  this  vassal,  addressed  her  in  the 
following  words  : Miss  Tox  previously  settling  her  head 
on  one  side,  and  making  other  little  arrangements  for 
engraving  them  on  her  heart. 

“During  the  six  months  or  so,  Richards,  which  have 
seen  you  an  inmate  of  this  house,  you  have  done  your 
duty.  Desiring  to  connect  some  little  service  to  you 
with  this  occasion,  I considered  how  I could  best  effect 
that  object,  and  I also  advised  with  my  sister  Mrs.—” 

“Chick,”  interposed  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

“Oh,  hush  if  you  please!  ” said  Miss  Tox. 

“I  was  about  to  say  to  you,  Richards,”  resumed  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  an  appalling  glance  at  John,  “ that  I was 
further  assisted  in  my  decision,  by  the  recollection  of  a 
conversation  I held  with  your  husband  in  this  room,  on 
the  occasion  of  your  being  hired,  when  he  disclosed  to 
me  the  melancholy  fact  that  your  family,  himselt  at  the 
head,  were  sunk  and  steeped  in  ignorance.” 

Richards  quailed  under  the  magnificence  of  the  r©» 
proof. 

“lam  far  from  being  friendly,”  pursued  Mr.  Dombey, 
“ to  what  is  called  by  persons  of  levelling  sentiments, 
general  education.  But  it  is  necessary  that  the  inferior 
classes  should  continue  to  be  taught  to  know  their  posi- 
tion, and  to  conduct  themselves  properly.  So  far  I ap- 
prove of  schools.  Having  the  power  of  nominating  a 
child  on  the  foundation  of  an  ancient  establishment, 
called  (from  a worshipful  company)  the  Charitable 
Grinders  ; where  not  only  is  a wholesome  education  be- 
stowed upon  the  scholars,  but  where  a dress  and  badge 
is  likewise  provided  for  them  ; I have  (first  communi- 
cating, through  Mrs.  Chick,  with  your  family)  nomin- 
ated your  eldest  son  to  an  existing  vacancy  ; and  he  has 
this  day,  I am  informed,  assumed  the  habit.  The  num- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


395 


ber  of  lier  son,  I believe,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  to 
his  sister  and  speaking  of  the  child  as  if  he  were  a hack- 
ney-coach, “is  one  hundred  and  forty-seven.  Louisa, 
you  can  tell  her.” 

“ One  hundred  and  forty-seven,”  said  Mrs.  Chick. 
“The  dress,  Richards,  is  a nice,  warm,  blue  baize 
tailed  coat  and  cap,  turned  up  with  orange-coloured 
binding  ; red  worsted  stockings  ; and  very  strong  leather 
small-clothes.  One  might  wear  the  articles  one's-self, ” 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  enthusiasm,  “and  be  grateful.” 

“There,  Richards!”  said  Miss  Tox.  “Now,  indeed, 
you  may  be  proud.  The  Charitable  Grinders  ! ” 

“ I am  sure  I am  very  much  obliged,  sir,”  returned 
Richards  faintly,  “ and  take  it  very  kind  that  you  should 
remember  my  little  ones.  ” At  the  same  time  a vision 
of  Biler  as  a Charitable  Grinder,  with  his  very  small 
legs  encased  in  the  serviceable  clothing  described  by 
Mrs.  Chick,  swam  before  Richards'  eyes,  and  made  them, 
water. 

“1  am  very  glad  to  see  you  have  so  much  feeling, 
Richards,”  said  Miss  Tox. 

“ It  makes  one  almost  hope,  it  really  does,”  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  who  prided  herself  on  taking  trustful  views  of 
human  nature,  “ that  there  may  yet  be  some  faint  spark 
of  gratitude  and  right  feeling  in  the  world.” 

Richards  deferred  to  ihese  compliments  by  curtseying 
and  murmuring  her  thanks  ; but  finding  it  quite  impos- 
sible to  recover  her  spirits  from  the  disorder  into  which 
they  had  been  thrown  by  the  image  of  her  son  in  his 
precocious  nether  garments,  she  gradually  approached 
the  door  and  was  heartily  relieved  to  escape  by  it. 

Such  temporary  indications  of  a partial  thaw  that  had 
appeared  with  her,  vanished  with  her  ; and  the  frost  set 
in  again,  as  cold  and  hard  as  ever.  Mr.  Chick  was  twice 
heard  to  hum  a tune  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  but  on 
both  occasions  it  was  a fragment  of  the  Dead  March  in 
Saul.  The  party  seemed  to  get  colder  and  colder,  and 
to  be  gradually  resolving  itself  into  a congealed  and 
solid  state,  like  the  collation  round  which  it  was  as- 
sembled. At  length  Mrs.  Chick  looked  at  Miss  Tox, 
and  Miss  Tox  returned  the  look,  and  they  both  rose  and 
said  it  was  really  time  to  go.  Mr.  Dombey  receiving 
this  announcement  with  perfect  equanimity,  they  took 
leave  of  that  gentleman,  and  presently  departed  under 
the  protection  of  Mr.  Chick  ; who,  when  they  had  turned 
their  backs  upon  the  house  and  left  its  master  in  his 
usual  solitary  state,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  threw 
himself  back  in  the  carriage,  and  whistled  “ With  a 
hey  ho  chevy  ! ” all  through  ; conveying  into  his  face  as 
he  did  so,  an  expression  of  such  gloomy  and  terrible  de- 
fiance, that  Mrs.  Chick  dared  not  protest,  or  in  any  way 
molest  him. 


396 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Richards,  though  she  had  little  Paul  on  her  lap,  could 
not  forget  her  own  first-born.  She  felt  it  was  ungrate- 
ful ; but  the  influence  of  the  day  fell  even  on  the  Chari- 
table Grinders,  and  she  could  hardly  help  regarding  his 
pewter  badge,  number  one  hundred  and  forty-seven,  as, 
somehow,  a part  of  its  formality  and  sternness.  She 
spoke,  too,  in  the  nursery,  of  his  “blessed  legs/'  and 
was  again  troubled  by  his  spectre  in  uniform. 

• “ I don’t  know  what  I wouldn’t  give,”  said  Polly,  “ to 
see  the  poor  little  dear  before  he  gets  used  to  ’em.” 

“ Why,  then,  I tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Richards,”  re- 
torted Nipper,  who  had  been  admitted  to  her  confidence, 
“see  him  and  make  your  mind  easy.” 

“ Mr.  Hombey  wouldn’t  like  it,”  said  Polly. 

“ Oh  wouldn’t  he,  Mrs.  Richards  ! ” retorted  Nipper, 
*‘he’d  like  it  very  much,  I think,  when  he  was  asked.” 

“ You  wouldn’t  ask  him,  I suppose,  at  all  ? ” sai$ 
Polly. 

“ No,  Mrs.  Richards,  quite  contrairy,”  returned  Susan, 
“and  them  two  inspectors  Tox  and  Chick,  not  intending 
to  be  on  duty  to-morrow,  as  I heard  ’em  say,  me  and 
Miss  Floy  will  go  along  with  you  to-morrow  morning, 
and  welcome,  Mrs.  Richards,  if  you  like,  for  we  may  as 
well  walk  there  as  up  and  down  a street,  and  better 
too.  ” 

Polly  rejected  the  idea  pretty  stoutly  at  first  ; but  by 
little  and  little  she  began  to  entertain  it,  as  she  enter- 
tained more  and  more  distinctly  the  forbidden  pictures 
of  her  children,  and  her  own  home.  At  length,  arguing 
that  there  could  be  no  great  harm  in  calling  for  a moment 
at  the  door,  she  yielded  to  the  Nipper  proposition. 

The  matter  being  settled  thus,  little  Paul  began  to  cry 
most  piteously,  as  if  he  had  a foreboding  that  no  good 
would  come  of  it. 

“What’s  the  matter  with  the  child?”  asked  Susan. 

“ He’s  cold,  I think,”  said  Polly,  walking  with  him  to 
and  fro,  and  hushing  him. 

It  was  a bleak  autumnal  afternoon  indeed  ; and  as  she 
walked,  and  hushed,  and,  glancing  through  the  dreary 
Windows,  pressed  the  little  fellow  closer  to  her  breast, 
the  withered  leaves  came  showering  down. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Paul's  Second  Deprivation . 

Polly  was  beset  by  so  many  misgivings  in  the  morn- 
ing, that  but  for  the  incessant  promptings  of  her  black- 
eyed  companion,  she  would  have  abandoned  all  thoughts 


DGMBEY  AND  SON. 


397 


of  the  expedition,  and  formally  petitioned  for  leave  to 
see  number  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  under  the  awful 
shadow  of  Mr.  Dombey's  roof.  But  Susan  who  was  per- 
sonally disposed  in  favour  of  the  excursion,  and  who 
(like  Tony  Lumpkin),  if  she  could  bear  the  disappoint- 
ments of  other  people  with  tolerable  fortitude,  could  not 
abide  to  disappoint  herself,  threw  so  many  ingenious 
doubts  in  the  way  of  this  second  thought,  and  stimulated 
the  original  intention  with  so  many  ingenious  arguments, 
that  almost  as  soon  as  Mr.  Dombey’s  stately  back  was 
turned,  and  that  gentleman  was  pursuing  his  daily  road 
toward  the  city,  his  unconscious  son  was  on  his  way  to 
Staggs's  Gardens. 

This  euphonious  locality  was  situated  in  a suburb, 
known  by  the  inhabitants  of  Staggs's  Gardens  by  the 
name  of  Camberling  Town  ; a designation  which  the 
Strangers'  Map  of  London,  as  printed  (with  a view  to 
pleasant  and  commodious  reference)  on  pocket-handker- 
chiefs, condenses,  with  some  show  of  reason,  into  Cam- 
den Town.  Hither  the  two  nurses  bent  their  steps,  ac- 
companied by  their  charges  ; Richards  carrying  Paul,  of 
course,  and  Susan  leading  little  Florence  by  the  hand, 
and  giving  her  such  jerks  and  pokes  from  time  ’.o  time, 
as  she  considered  it  wholesome  to  administer 

The  first  shock  of  a great  earthquake  had,  just  at  that 
period,  rent  the  whole  neighbourhood  to  its  centre. 
Traces  of  its  course  were  visible  on  every  side.  Houses 
were  knocked  down;  streets  broken  through  and  stopped  ; 
deep  pits  and  trenches  dug  in  the  ground  ; enormous 
heaps  of  earth  and  clay  thrown  up  ; buildings  that  were 
undermined  and  shaking,  propped  by  great  beams  of 
wood.  Here,  a chaos  of  carts,  overthrown  and  jumbled 
together,  lay  topsy-turvy  at  the  bottom  of  a steep  un- 
natural hill  : there,  confused  treasures  of  iron  soaked 
and  rusted  in  something  that  had  accidentally  become  a 
pond.  Everywhere  were  bridges  that  led  nowhere  ; 
thoroughfares  that  were  wholly  impassable  ; Babel 
towers  of  chimneys,  wanting  half  their  height  ; tempor- 
ary wooden  houses  and  enclosures,  in  the  most  unlikely 
situation  ; carcases  of  ragged  tenements,  and  fragments 
of  unfinished  walls  and  arches,  and  piles  of  scaffolding, 
and  wildernesses  of  bricks,  and  giant  forms  of  cranes, 
and  tripods  straddling  above  nothing.  There  were  a 
hundred  thousand  shapes  and  substances  of  incomplete- 
ness, wildly  mingled  out  of  their  places,  upside  down, 
burrowing  in  the  earth,  aspiring  in  the  air,  mouldering 
in  the  water,  and  unintelligible  as  any  dream.  Hot 
springs  and  fiery  eruptions,  the  usual  attendants  upon 
earthquakes,  lent  their  contributions  of  confusion  to  the 
scene.  Boiling  water  hissed  and  heaved  within  dilapi- 
dated walls  ; whence,  also,  the  glare  and  roar  of  fiame^ 


898 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


came  issuing  forth  ; and  mounds  of  ashes  blocked  up 
rights  of  way,  and  wholly  changed  the  law  and  custom 
of  the  neighbourhood. 

In  short,  the  yet  unfinished  and  unopened  railroad  was 
in  progress  ; and  from  the  very  core  of  all  this  dire  dis- 
order, trailed  smoothly  away,  upon  its  mighty  course  of 
civilisation  and  improvement. 

Rut  as  yet,  the  neighbourhood  was  shy  to  own  the 
Railroad.  One  or  two  bold  speculators  had  projected 
streets  and  one  had  built  a little,  but  had  stopped 
among  the  mud  and  ashes  to  consider  farther  of  it.  A 
bran-new  travern,  redolent  of  fresh  mortar  and  size, 
and  fronting  nothing  at  all,  had  taken  for  its  sign  The 
Railway  Arms  ; but  that  might  be  rash  enterprise— and 
then  it  hoped  to  sell  drink  to  the  workmen.  So,  the 
Excavators’  House  of  Call  had  sprung  up  from  a beer 
shop  ; and  the  old-established  Ham  and  Beef  Shop  had 
become  the  Railway  Eating  House,  with  a roast  leg  of 
pork  daily,  through  interested  motives  of  a similar  im- 
mediate and  popular  description . Lodging-house  keepers 
were  favourable  in  like  manner  ; and  for  the  like  reasons 
were  not  to  be  trusted.  The  general  belief  was  very 
slow.  There  were  frowzy  fields,  and  cow-houses,  and 
dung-hills,  and  dustheaps,  and  ditches,  and  gardens,  and 
summer-houses,  and  carpet-beating  grounds,  at  the  very 
door  of  the  railway.  Little  tumuli  of  oyster  shells  in 
the  oyster  season,  and  of  lobster  shells  in  the  lobster 
season,  and  of  broken  crockery  and  faded  cabbage 
leaves  in  ail  seasons,  encroached  upon  its  high  places. 
Posts  and  rails,  and  old  cautions  to  trespassers,  and  backs 
of  mean  houses,  and  patches  of  wretched  vegetation, 
stared  it  out  of  countenance.  Nothing  was  the  better 
for  it,  or  thought  of  being  so.  If  the  miserable  waste 
ground  lying  near  it  could  have  laughed,  it  would  have 
laughed  it  to  scorn,  like  many  of  the  miserable  neigh- 
bours. 

Staggs’s  Gardens  was  uncommonly  incredulous.  It 
Was  a little  row  of  houses,  with  little  squalid  patches  of 
ground  before  them,  fenced  off  with  old  doors,  barrel 
Staves,  scraps  of  tarpaulin,  and  dead  bushes  ; writh  bot- 
tomless tin  kettles  and  exhausted  iron  fenders,  thrust 
into  the  gaps.  Here,  the  Staggs’s  Gardeners  trained 
scarlet  beans,  kept  fowls  and  rabbits,  erected  rotten 
summer  houses  (one  was  an  old  boat),  dried  clothes,  and 
smoked  pipes.  Some  wore  of  opinion  that  Staggs’s  Gar- 
dens derived  its  name  from  a deceased  capitalist,  one 
Mr.  Staggs,  who  had  built  it  for  his  delectation.  Others, 
who  had  a natural  taste  for  the  country,  held  that  it 
dated  from  those  rural  times  when  the  antlered  herd* 
tender  the  familiar  denomination  of  Staggses  had  re- 
nted to  its  shady  precincts.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Staggs’s 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


rrr 

r 


hardens  was  regarded  by  its  population  as  a sacretf 
grove  not  to  be  withered  by  railroads  ; and  so  confident 
were  they  generally  of  its  long  outliving  any  such  ridicu- 
lous inventions  that  the  master  chimney-sweeper  at  the 
corner,  who  was  understood  to  take  the  lead  in  the  local 
politics  of  the  Gardens,  had  publicly  declared  that  on 
the  occasion  of  the  railroad  opening,  if  ever  it  did  open, 
two  of  his  boys  should  ascend  the  Sues  of  his  dwelling, 
with  instructions  to  hail  the  failure  with  derisive  jeers 
from  the  chimney  pots. 

To  this  unhallowed  spot,  the  very  name  of  which  had 
hitherto  been  carefully  concealed  from  Mr.  Dombey  by 
his  sister,  was  little  Paul  now  borne  by  Fate  and  Rich- 
ards. 

“ That’s  my  house,  Susan,”  said  Polly,  pointing  it 
out. 

" Is  it,  indeed,  Mrs.  Richards,”  said  Susan,  condescend- 
ingly. 

" And  there’s  my  sister  Jemima  at  the  door,  I do  de- 
clare cried  Polly,  '‘With  my  own  sweet  precious  baby 
in  her  arms  ! ” 

The  sight  added  such  an  extensive  pair  of  wings  to 
Polly’s  impatience,  that  she  set  off  down  the  Gardens  at 
a run,  and  bouncing  on  Jemima,  changed  babies  with 
her  in  a twinkling,  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  that 
young  damsel,  on  whom  the  heir  of  the  Dombey s seemed 
to  have  fallen  from  the  clouds. 

" Why,  Polly  cried  Jemima.  "You  \ what  a turn 
you  have  given  me  ! who’d  have  thought  it  ! come  along 
in  Polly  ! How  well  you  do  look  to  be  sure  ! The  chik 
dren  will  go  half  wild  to  see  you  Polly,  that  they  will.” 

That  they  did,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  noise  they 
made,  and  the  way  in  which  they  dashed  . at  Polly  and 
dragged  her  to  a low  chair  in  the  chimney  corner,  where 
her  own  honest  apple  face  became  immediately  the  cen- 
tre of  a bunch  of  smaller  pippins,  all  laying  their  rosy 
cheeks  close  to  it,  and  all  evidently  the  growth  of  the 
same  tree.  As  to  Polly,  she  was  full  as  noisy  and  vehe- 
ment as  the  children  ; and  it  was  not  until  she  was 
quite  out  of  breath,  and  her  hair  was  hanging  all  about 
her  flushed  face,  and  her  new  christening  attire  was  very 
much  dishevelled,  that  any  pause  took  place  in  the  con- 
fusion. Even  then,  the  smallest  Tcodle  but  one  remained 
in  her  lap,  bolding  on  tight  with  both  arms  round  her 
neck,  while  the  smallest  Tooale  but  two  mounted  on  th@ 
back  of  the  chair,  and  made  desperate  efforts,  with  one 
leg  in  the  air,  to  kiss  her  round  the  corner. 

“ Look  ! there’s  a pretty  little  lady  come  to  see  you/ 
said  Polly  ; ‘ ‘ and  see  how  quiet  she  is  ! what  a beauti- 
ful little  lady,  ain’t  she?” 

r,chis  reference  to  Florence,  who  had  been  standing  by 


400 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  door  not  unobservant  of  what  passed,  directed  the 
attention  of  the  younger  branches  towards  her  ; and  had 
likewise  the  happy  effect  of  leading  to  the  formal  recog- 
nition of  Miss  Nipper,  who  was  not  quite  free  from  a 
misgiving  that  she  had  been  already  slighted. 

“ Oh  do  come  in  and  sit  down  a minute,  Susan,  please,” 
said  Polly.  “ This  is  my  sister  Jemima,  this  is.  Jemi- 
ma, I don't  know  what  I should  ever  do  with  myself,  if 
it  wasn’t  for  Susan  Nipper  ; I shouldn’t  be  here  now  but 
for  her.  ” 

“ Oh  do  sit  down  Miss  Nipper,  if  you  please,”  quoth 
Jemima. 

Susan  took  the  extreme  corner  of  a chair,  with  a 
stately  and  ceremonious  aspect. 

“I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  anybody  in  all  my  life  ; 
now  really,  I never  was.  Miss  Nipper,”  said  Jemima. 

Susan  relaxing,  took  a little  more  of  the  chair,  and 
smiled  graciously. 

“ Do  untie  your  bonnet-strings  and  make  yourself  at 
home.  Miss  Nipper,  please,”  entreated  Jemima.  “ I am 
afraid  it’s  a poorer  place  than  you’re  used  to  ; but  you’ll 
make  allowances,  I’m  sure.” 

The  black-eyed  was  so  softened  by  this  deferential  be= 
kaviour,  that  she  caught  up  little  Miss  Toodle  who  was 
running  past,  and  took  her  to  Banbury  Cross  immedi- 
ately. 

“ But  where’s  my  pretty  boy?”  said  Polly.  “My 
poor  fellow  ? I came  all  this  way  to  see  him  in  his  new 
clothes.” 

“ Ah  what  a pity  !”  cried  Jemima.  “ He’ll  break  his 
heart,  when  he  hears  his  mother  has  been  here.  He’s  at 
school,  Polly.” 

“ Gone  already  ! ” 

“ Yes.  He  went  for  the  first  time  yesterday,  for  feai 
he  should  lose  any  learning.  But  it’s  half-holiday,  Polly: 
if  you  could  only  stop  ’till  he  comes  home — you  and  Miss 
Nipper,  leastways,”  said  Jemima,  mindful  in  good  time 
of  the  dignity  of  the  black-eyed. 

“ And  how  does  he  look,  Jemima,  bless  him  ! ” fal  • 
tered  Polly. 

“ Well,  really  he  don’t  look  so  bad  as  you’d  suppose,” 
returned  J emima. 

“Ah  !”  said  Polly,  with  emotion,  “I  knew  his  legs 
must  be  too  short.” 

“ His  legs  is  short,”  returned  Jemima;  “ especially  be* 
hind  ; but  they’ll  get  longer,  Polly,  every  day.” 

It  was  a slow,  prospective  kind  of  consolation  ; but  the 
cheerfulness  and  good  nature  with  which  it  was  admin- 
istered, gave  it  a value  it  did  not  intrinsically  possess. 
After  a moment’s  silence,  Polly  asked,  in  a more  spright- 

manner  : 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


401 


4C  And  where’s  father,  Jemima  dear?" — for  by  the 
patriarchal  appellation,  Mr.  Toodle  was  generally  known 
in  the  family, 

44  There  again  ! ” said  Jemima.  44  What  a pity  ! Fa- 
ther took  his  dinner  with  him  this  morning,  and  isn't 
coming  home  till  night.  But  he's  always  talking  of  you, 
Polly,  and  telling  the  children  about  you  ; and  is  the 
peaceablest,  patientest,  best  temperedest  soul  in  the 
world,  as  he  always  was  and  will  be  ! " 

44  Thankee,  Jemima,"  cried  the  simple  Polly;  delighted 
by  the  speech,  and  disappointed  by  the  absence. 

44  Oh  you  needn’t  thank  me,  Polly,"  said  her  sister, 
giving  her  a sound  kiss  upon  the  cheek,  and  then  danc- 
ing little  Paul  cheerfully.  44 1 say  the  same  of  you  some- 
times, and  think  it  too." 

In  spite  of  the  double  disappointment,  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  regard  in  the  light  of  a failure  a visit  which  was 
greeted  with  such  a reception  ; so  the  sisters  talked 
hopefully  about  family  matters,  and  about  Biler,  and 
about  all  his  brothers  and  sisters  ; while  the  black-eyed, 
having  performed  several  journeys  to  Banbury  Cross  and 
back,  took  sharp  note  of  the  furniture,  the  Dutch  clock, 
the  cupboard,  the  castle  on  the  mantel-piece,  with  red 
and  green  windows  in  it,  susceptible  of  illumination  by 
a candle-end  within ; and  a pair  of  small  black  velvet 
kittens,  each  with  a lady’s  reticule  in  its  mouth  ; re- 
garded by  the  Stagg's  Gardeners  as  prodigies  of  imitative 
art.  The  conversation  soon  becoming  general  lest  the 
black-eyed  should  go  off  at  score  and  turn  sarcastic,  that 
young  lady  related  to  Jemima  a summary  of  everything 
she  knew  concerning  Mr.  Dombey,  his  prospects,  family, 
pursuits,  and  character.  Also  an  exact  inventory  of  her 
personal  wardrobe,  and  some  account  of  her  principal 
relations  and  friends.  Having  relieved  her  mind  of  these 
disclosures,  she  partook  of  shrimps  and  porter,  and 
evinced  a disposition  to  swear  eternal  friendship. 

Little  Florence  herself  was  not  behind-hand  in  improv- 
ing the  occasion  ; for,  being  conducted  forth  by  the 
young  Toodies  to  inspect  some  toadstools,  and  other  cu- 
riosities of  the  Gardens,  she  entered  with  them,  heart 
and  soul,  on  the  formation  of  a temporary  breakwater 
across  a small  green  pool  that  had  collected  in  a corner. 
She  was  still  busily  engaged  in  that  labour,  when  sought 
and  found  by  Susan  ; who,  such  was  her  sense  of  duty, 
even  under  the  humanising  influence  of  shrimps,  deliv- 
ered a moral  address  to  her  (punctuated  with  thumps) 
on  her  degenerate  nature,  while  washing  her  facQ  and 
hands  ; and  predicted  that  she  would  bring  the  grey 
hairs  of  her  family  in  general,  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
After  some  delay,  occasioned  by  a pretty  long  confiden- 
tial inter  wiew  above  stairs  on  pecuniary  subjects,  bet  ween 


402  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Polly  and  Jemima,  an  interchange  of  babies  was  again  ef- 
fected— for  Polly  had  all  this  time  retained  her  own 
child,  and  Jemima  little  Paul — and  the  visitors  took  leave. 

But  first  the  young  Toodles,  victims  of  a pious  fraud, 
were  deluded  into  repairing  in  a body  to  a chandler’s  shop 
in  the  neighbourhood,  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  spend- 
ing a penny  ; and  when  the  coast  was  clear,  Polly  fled : 
Jemima  calling  after  her  that  if  they  could  only  go 
round  towards  the  City  Road  on  their  way  back,  they 
would  be  sure  to  meet  lUtle  Biler  coming  from  school. 

“ Do  you  think  that  we  might  make  time  to  go  a little 
round  in  that  direction,  Susan  ? ” inquired  Polly,  when 
they  halted  to  take  breath. 

“ Why  not,  Mrs.  Richards?”  returned  Susan. 

“ It’s  getting  on  towards  our  dinner  time  you  know,’1 
said  Polly. 

But  lunch  had  rendered  her  companion  more  than  in 
different  to  this  grave  consideration,  so  she  allowed  no 
weight  to  it,  and  they  resolved  to  go  “ a little  round.” 

Now,  it  happened  that  poor  Biier’s  life  had  been,  since 
yesterday  morning,  rendered  weary  by  the  costume  of 
the  Charitable  Grinders.  The  youth  of  the  streets  could 
not  endure  it.  No  young  vagabond  could  be  brought  to 
bear  its  contemplation  for  a moment,  without  throwing 
himself  upon  the  unoffending  wearer,  and  doing  him  a 
mischief.  ITis  social  existence  had  been  more  like  that  of 
an  early  Christian,  than  an  innocent  child  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  He  had  been  stoned  in  the  streets.  He 
had  been  overthrown  into  gutters  ; bespattered  with 
mud  ; violently  flattened  against  posts.  Entire  strangers 
to  his  person  had  lifted  his  yellow  cap  off  his  head,  and 
cast  it  to  the  winds.  His  legs  had  not  only  undergone 
verbal  criticisms  and  revilings,  but  had  been  handled  and 
pinched.  That  very  morning,  he  had  received  a perfect- 
ly unsolicited  black  eye  on  his  way  to  the  Grinders  ’ es- 
tablishment, and  had  been  punished  for  it  by  the  master 
a Superannuated  old  Grinder  of  savage  disposition,  who 
had  been  appointed  schoolmaster  because  he  didn’t  know 
anything,  and  wasn’t  fit  for  anything,  and  for  who$*§ 
cruel  cane  all  chubby  little  boys  had  a perfect  fascina- 
tion. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that  Biler,  on  his  wray  home,  sought 
unfrequented  paths,  and  slunk  along  by  narrow  pas- 
sages and  back  streets,  to  avoid  his  tormentors.  Being 
compelled  to  emerge  into  the  main  road,  his  ill  fortune 
brought  him  at  last  where  a small  party  of  boys,  headed 
by  a ferocious  young  butcher,  were  lying  in  wait  for  any 
means*  of  pleasurable  excitement  that  might  haopen. 
These,  finding  a Charitable  Grinder  in  the  midst  of  them 
— unaccountably  delivered  over,  as  it  were,  into  their 
hands — set  up  a general  yell  and  rushed  upon  him. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


403 


But  it  so  fell  out  likewise,  tliat,  at  the  same  time,  Polly, 
looking’  hopelessly  along  the  road  before  her,  after  a good 
hour's  walk,  had  said  it  was  no  use  going  any  farther, 
when  suddenly  she  saw  this  sight.  She  no  sooner  saw  it 
than,  uttering  a hasty  exclamation,  and  giving  Master 
Dombey  to  the  black-eyed,  she  started  to  the  rescue  of 
her  unhappy  little  son. 

Surprises,  like  misfortunes,  rarely  come  alone.  The 
astonished  Susan  Nipper  and  her  two  young  charges  were 
rescued  by  the  bystanders  from  under  the  very  wheels  of 
a passing  carriage  before  they  knew  what  had  happened  ; 
and  at  that  moment  (it  was  market  day)  a thundering 
alarm  of  “ Mad  Bull  !”  was  raised. 

With  a wild  confusion  before  her,  of  people  running  up 
and  down,  and  shouting,  and  wheels  running  over  them, 
and  boys  fighting,  and  mad  bulls  coming  up,  and  the 
nurse  in  the  midst  of  all  these  dangers  being  torn  to 
pieces,  Florence  screamed  and  ran.  She  ran  till  she  was 
exhausted,  urging  Susan  to  do  the  same  ; and  then,  stop- 
ping and  wringing  her  hands  as  she  remembered  they 
had  left  the  other  nurse  behind,  found,  with  a sensation 
of  terror  not  to  be  described,  that  she  was  quite  alone. 

“ Susan  ! Susan  ! ” cried  Florence,  clapping  her  hands 
in  the  very  ecstacy  of  her  alarm.  “ Oh,  where  are  they  1 
where  are  they  ! ” 

“ Where  are  they  ?”  said  an  old  woman,  coming  hob* 
bling  across  as  fast  as  she  could  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  way.  4 ‘ Why  did  you  run  away  from  ’em  ? ” 

“ I was  frightened,”  answered  Florence.  “ I didn’t 
know  what  I did.  I thought  they  were  with  me.  Where 
are  they?” 

The  old  woman  took  her  by  the  wrist,  and  said,  “ FI! 
show  you.” 

She  was  a very  ugly  old  woman,  with  red  rims  round 
her  eyes,  and  a mouth  that  mumbled  and  chattered  of 
itself  when  she  was  not  speaking.  She  was  miserably 
dressed,  and  carried  some  skins  over  her  arm.  She 
seemed  to  have  followed  Florence  some  little  way  at  all 
events,  for  she  had  lost  her  breath  ; and  this  made  her 
uglier  still,  as  she  stood  trying  to  regain  it : working  her 
shrivelled  yellow  face  and  throat  into  all  sorts  of  contor- 
tions. 

Florence  was  afraid  of  her,  and  looked,  hesitating,  up 
the  street,  of  which  she  had  almost  reached  the  bottom. 
It  was  a solitary  place — more  a back  road  than  a street — 
and  there  was  no  one  in  it  but  herself  and  the  old  woman. 

“ You  needn’t  be  frightened  now,”  said  the  old  womans 
still  holding  her  tight.  “Come  along  with  me.” 

‘ ‘ I — I don’t  know  you.  What’s  your  name  ? ” asked 
Florence. 


404 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Mrs.  Brown,”  said  tlie  old  woman.  tl  Good  Mrs. 
Bro^n.” 

“ Are  they  near  here  ?”  asked  Florence,  beginning  to 
be  led  away. 

“ Susan  an’t  far  off,”  said  Good  Mrs.  Browa  ; “ and  th« 
others  are  close  to  her.” 

“ Is  anybody  hurt  ? ” cried  Florence. 

“ Not  a bit  of  it,”  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown. 

The  child  shed  tears  of  delight  on  hearing  this,  and  ac- 
companied the  old  woman  willingly ; though  she  could 
not  help  glancing  at  her  face  as  they  went  along — par- 
ticularly at  that  industrious  mouth — and  wondering 
whether  Bad  Mrs.  Brown,  if  there  were  such  a person, 
was  at  ail  like  her. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  but  had  gone  by  some  very  un- 
comfortable places,  such  as  brick-fields  and  tile-yards, 
when  the  old  woman  turned  down  a dirty  lane,  where 
the  mud  lay  in  deep  black  ruts  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
She  stopped  before  a shabby  little  house,  as  closely  shut 
up  as  a house  that  was  full  of  cracks  and  crevices  could 
be.  Opening  the  door  with  a key  she  took  out  of  her 
bonnet,  she  pushed  the  child  before  her  into  a back  room, 
where  there  was  a great  heap  of  rags  of  different  colours 
lying  on  the  floor  ; a heap  of  bones,  and  a heap  of  sifted 
dust  or  cinders  ; but  there  was  no  furniture  at  all,  and 
the  walls  and  ceiling  were  quite  black. 

The  child  became  so  terrified  that  she  was  stricken 
speechless,  and  looked  as  though  about  to  swoon. 

“ Now  don't  be  a young  mule,”  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown, 
reviving  her  with  a shake.  “ I’m  not  a going  to  hurt 
you.  Sit  upon  the  rags.” 

Florence  obeyed  her,  holding  out  her  folded  hands,  in 
mute  supplication. 

“ I’m  not  a going  to  keep  you,  even,  above  an  hour,” 
said  Mrs.  Brown.  ‘ ' D’ye  understand  what  I say  ? ” 

The  child  answered  with  great  difficulty,  “ Yes.” 

“ Then,”  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown,  taking  her  own  seat 
on  the  bones,  “don’t  vex  me.  If  you  don’t,  I tell  you  I 
won’t  hurt  you.  But  if  you  do,  I’ll  kill  you.  I could 
have  you  killed  at  any  time — even  if  you  was  in  your  own 
bed  at  home.  Now  let’s  know  who  you  are,  and  what 
you  are,  and  all  about  it.” 

The  old  woman’s  threats  and  promises  ; the  dread  of 
giving  her  offence  ; and  the  habit,  unusual  to  a child, 
but  almost  natural  to  Florence  now,  of  being  quiet,  and 
repressing  what  she  felt,  and  feared,  and  hoped  ; enabled 
her  to  do  this  bidding,  and  to  tell  her  little  history,  or 
what  she  knew  of  it.  Mrs.  Brown  listened  attentively, 
until  she  had  finished. 

“ So  your  name’s  Dombey,  eh  I ” said  Mrs.  Brown. 

“Yes  ma’am.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


405 


“ I want  that  pretty  frock,  Miss  Dombey,’*  said  Good 
Mrs.  Brown,  “ and  that  little  bonnet,  and  a petticoat  or 
two,  and  anything  else  you  can  spare.  Come  ! Take 
'em  off.” 

Florence  obeyed  as  fast  as  her  trembling  hands  would 
allow  ; keeping,  ail  the  while,  a frightened  eye  on  Mrs. 
Brown.  When  she  had  divested  herself  of  all  the  arti- 
cles of  apparel  mentioned  by  that  lady,  Mrs.  B.  exam- 
ined them  at  leisure,  and  seemed  tolerably  well  satisfied 
with  their  quality  and  value. 

“ Humph  ! ” she  said,  running  her  eyes  over  the  child’s 
slight  figure,  “ I don’t  see  anything  else  — except  the 
shoes.  I must  have  the  shoes,  Miss  Dombey.” 

Poor  little  Florence  took  them  off  with  equal  alacrity, 
only  too  glad  to  have  any  more  means  of  conciliation 
about  her.  The  old  woman  then  produced  some  wretched 
substitutes  from  the  bottom  of  the  heap  of  rags,  which 
she  turned  up  for  that  purpose  ; together  with  a girl’s 
cloak,  quite  worn  out  and  very  old  ; and  the  crushed 
remains  of  a bonnet  that  had  probably  been  picked  up 
from  some  ditch  or  dunghill.  In  this  dainty  raiment, 
she  instructed  Florence  to  dress  herself ; and  as  such 
preparation  seemed  a prelude  to  her  release,  the  child 
complied  with  increased  readiness,  if  possible. 

In  hurriedly  putting  on  the  bonnet,  if  that  may  be 
called  a bonnet  which  was  more  like  a pad  to  carry  loads 
on,  she  caught  it  in  her  hair  which  grew  luxuriantly, 
and  could  not  immediately  disentangle  it.  Good  Mrs. 
Brown  whipped  out  a large  pair  of  scissors,  and  fell  into 
an  unaccountable  state  of  excitement. 

“Why  couldn’t  you  let  me  be,”  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
“ when  I was  contented.  You  little  fool  ! ” 

“ I beg  your  pardon.  I don’t  know  what  I have  done,” 
panted  Florence.  “ I couldn’t  help  it.” 

“Couldn’t  help  it!”  cried  Mrs.  Brown.  “How  do 
you  expect  I can  help  it  ? Why,  Lord  J”  said  the  old 
woman,  ruffling  her  curls  with  a furious  pleasure,  “ any- 
body but  me  would  have  had  ’em  off  first  of  all.” 

Florence  was  so  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  only  her 
hair  and  not  her  head  which  Mrs.  Brown  coveted,  that 
she  offered  no  resistance  or  entreaty,  and  merely  raised 
her  mild  eyes  towards  the  face  of  that  good  souL 

“ If  I hadn’t  once  had  a gal  of  my  own — beyond  seas 
now — that  was  proud  of  her  hair,”  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
“ I’d  have  had  every  lock  of  it.  She’s  far  away,  she’s 
far  away  I Oho  ! Oho  ! ” 

Mr.  Brown’s  was  not  a melodious  cry,  but,  accom- 
panied with  a wild  tossing  up  of  her  lean  arms,  it  was 
full  of  passionate  grief,"and  thrilled  to  the  heart  of 
Florence,  whom  it  frightened  more  -than  ever*.  It  had  its 


406 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


part,  perhaps,  in  saving  her  curls  ; for  Mrs.  Brown  aft€& 
hovering  about  her  with  the  scissors  for  some  moments, 
like  a new  kind  c f butterfly,  bade  her  hide  them  under 
the  bonnet  and  let  no  trace  of  them  escape  to  tempt  her. 
Having  accomplished  this  victory  over  herself,  Mrs. 
Brown  resumed  her  seat  on  the  bones,  and  smoked  a very 
short  black  pipe,  mowing  and  mumbling  all  the  time,  as 
if  she  w(  re  eating  the  stem. 

When  the  pipe  was  smoked  out,  she  gave  the  child  a 
rabbit-skin  to  carry,  that  she  might  appear  more  like  her 
ordinary  companion,  and  told  her  that  she  was  now  go- 
ing to  lead  her  to  a public  street  whence  she  could  in- 
quire her  way  to  her  friends.  But  she  cautioned  her, 
with  threats  of  summary  and  deadly  vengeance  in  case 
of  disobedience,  not  to  talk  to  strangers,  nor  to  repair  to 
her  own  home  (which  may  have  been  too  near  for  Mrs. 
Brown's  convenience),  but  to  her  father's  office  in  the 
city  ; also  to  wait  at  the  street  corner  where  she  would 
be  left,  until  the  clock  struck  three.  These  directions 
Mrs.  Brown  enforced  with  assurances  that  there  would  be 
potent  eyes  and  ears  in  her  employment  cognisant  of  all 
she  did  ; and  these  directions  Florence  promised  faith- 
fully and  earnestly  to  observe. 

At  length  Mrs.  Brown,  issuing  forth,  conducted  her 
changed  and  ragged  little  friend  through  a labyrinth  of 
narrow  streets  and  lanes  and  alleys,  which  emerged 
after  a long  time,  upon  a stable  yard,  with  a gateway  at 
the  end,  whence  the  roar  of  a great  thoroughfare  made 
itself  audible.  Pointing  out  this  gateway,  and  inform- 
ing Florence  that  when  the  clock  struck  three  she  was 
to  go  to  the  left,  Mrs.  Brown,  after  making  a parting 
grasp  at  her  hair  which  seemed  involuntary  and  quite 
beyond  her  own  control,  told  her  she  knew  what  to  do, 
and  bade  her  go  and  do  it ; remembering  that  she  was 
watched. 

With  a lighter  heart,  but  still  sore  afraid,  Florence 
felt  herself  released,  and  tripped  off  to  the  corner. 
When  she  reached  it,  she  looked  back  and  saw  the  head 
of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  peeping  out  of  the  low  wooden  pas* 
sage,  where  she  had  issued  her  parting  injunctions  ; like- 
wise the  fist  of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  shaking  towards  her. 
But  though  she  often  looked  back  afterwards — every 
minute,  at  least,  in  her  nervous  recollection  of  the  old 
woman — she  could  not  see  her  again. 

Florence  remained  there,  looking  at  the  bustle  in  the 
street,  and  more  and  more  bewildered  by  it ; and  in  the 
meanwhile  the  clocks  appeared  to  have  made  up  their 
minds  never  to  strike  three  any  more.  At  last  the  steeples 
rang  out  three  o’clock  ; there  was  one  close  by,  so  she 
couldn’t  be  mistaken  ; and — after  often  looking  over  her 
shoulder,  and  often  going  a little  way,  and  as  often  coin 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


40? 


mg  back  again,  lest  tiie  all-powerful  spies  of  Mrs. 
Brown  should  take  offence — she  hurried  off,  as  fast  as 
she  could  in  her  slipshod  shoes,  holding  the  rabbit-skis, 
tight  in  her  hand. 

All  she  knew  of  her  father’s  offices  was  that  they  be- 
longed to  Dombey  and  Son,  and  that  that  was  a great 
power  belonging  to  the  city.  So  she  could  only  ask  the 
way  to  Dombey  and  Son’s  in  the  city  ; and  as  she  gener- 
ally made  inquiry  of  children — being  afraid  to  ask 
grown  people — she  got  very  little  satisfaction  indeed. 
But  by  dint  of  asking  her  way  to  the  city  after  a while 
and  dropping  the  rest  of  her  inquiry  for  the  present,  she 
really  did  advance,  by  slow  degrees,  towards  the  heart 
of  that  great  region  which  is  governed  by  the  terrible 
Lord  Mayor. 

Tired  of  walking,  repulsed  and  pushed  about,  stunned 
by  the  noise  and  confusion,  anxious  for  her  brother  and 
the  nurses,  terrified  b}  what  she  had  undergone,  and  the 
prospect  of  encountering  her  angry  father  in  sueh  an 
altered  state  ; perplexed  and  frightened  alike  by  what 
had  passed,  and  what  was  passing,  and  what  was  yet 
before  her ; Florence  went  upon  her  weary  way  with 
tearful  eyes,  and  once  or  twice  could  not  help  stopping 
to  ease  her  bursting  heart  by  crying  bitterly.  But  few 
people  noticed  her  at  those  times,  in  the  garb  she  wore  ; 
or  if  they  did,  believed  that  she  was  tutored  to  excite 
compassion,  and  passed  on.  Florence,  too,  called  to  her 
aid  all  the  firmness  and  self-reliance  of  a character  that 
her  sad  experience  had  prematurely  formed  and  tried  ; 
and  keeping  the  end  she  had  in  view,  steadily  befoi® 
her,  steadily  pursued  it. 

It  was  full  two  hours  later  in  the  afternoon  than  when 
she  had  started  on  this  strange  adventure,  when,  escap- 
ing from  the  clash  and  clangour  of  a narrow  street  full 
of  carts  and  waggons,  she  peeped  into  a kind  of  wharf 
or  landing-place,  upon  the  river  side,  where  there  were 
a great  many  packages,  casks,  and  boxes,  strewn  about ; 
a large  pair  of  wooden  scales  ; and  a little  wooden  house 
on  wheels,  outside  of  which,  looking  at  the  neighbour- 
ing masts  and  boats,  a stout  man  stood  whistling,  with 
his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as 
if  his  day’s  work  were  nearly  done. 

“ Now  then  !”  said  this  man,  happening  to  turn  round. 
“ We  haven’t  got  anything  for  you,  little  girl.  Be 

“ If  you  please,  is  this  the  city  ? ” asked  the  trembling 
daughter  of  the  Dombeys. 

‘ e Ah  ! it’s  the  city.  You  know  that  well  enough,  I 
dare  say.  Be  off  ! We  haven’t  got  anything  for  you/’ 

“ I don’t  want  anything,  thank  you,”  was  the  timid 
answer.  “ Except  to  know  the  way  to  Dombey  and 
Son’s.” 


408 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  man  who  had  been  strolling  carelessly  towards 
her,  seemed  surprised  by  this  reply,  and  looking  atten- 
tively in  her  face,  rejoined : 

“ Why,  what  can  you  want  with  Dombey  and  Son’s?” 

“ To  know  the  way  there,  if  you  please.” 

The  man  looked  at  her  yet  more  curiously,  and  rubbed 
the  back  of  his  head  so  hard  in  his  wonderment  that  he 
knocked  his  own  hat  off. 

“ Joe  ! ” he  called  to  another  man — a labourer — as  he 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  on  again. 

“Joe  it  is  ! ” said  Joe. 

“ Where’s  that  young  spark  of  Dombey’s  who’s  been 
watching  the  shipment  of  them  goods  ? ” 

“ Just  gone,  by  the  t’other  gate,”  said  Joe. 

“ Call  him  back  a minute.” 

Joe  ran  up  an  archway,  bawling  as  he  went,  and  very 
soon  returned  with  a blithe-looking  boy. 

“You’re  Dombey’s  jockey,  ain’t  you?”  said  the  first 
man. 

“I’m  in  Dombey’s  House,  Mr.  Clark,”  returned  the 
boy. 

“Look’ye,  here,  then,”  said  Mr.  Clark. 

Obedient  to  the  indication  of  Mr.  Clark’s  hand,  the 
boy  approached  towards  Florence,  wondering,  as  well 
he  might,  what  he  had  to  do  wdtli  her.  But  she,  who 
had  heard  what  passed,  and  who,  besides  the  relief  of  so 
suddenly  considering  herself  safe  and  at  her  journey’s 
end,  felt  reassured  beyond  all  measure  by  his  lively 
youthful  face  and  manner,  ran  eagerly  up  to  him,  leav 
ing  one  of  the  slipshod  shoes  upon  the  ground  and 
caught  his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

“ I am  lost,  if  you  please  ! ” said  Florence. 

“ Lost ! ” cried  the  boy. 

“Yes,  I was  lost  this  morning,  a long  way  from  here— 
and  I have  had  my  clothes  taken  away,  since — and  I am 
not  dressed  in  my  own  now — and  my  name  is  Florence 
Dombey,  my  little  brother’s  only  sister — and,  oh  dear, 
dear,  take  care  of  me,  if  you  please  ! ” sobbed  Florence, 
giving  full  vent  to  the  childish  feelings  she  had  so  long 
suppressed,  and  bursting  into  tears.  At  the  same  time 
her  miserable  bonnet  falling  off,  her  hair  came  tumbling 
down  about  her  face  : moving  to  speechless  admiration 
and  commiseration,  young  Walter,  nephew  of  Solomon 
Gills,  Ships’  Instrument-maker  in  general. 

Mr.  Clark  stood  rapt  in  amazement  : observing  under 
his  breath,  I never  saw  such  a start  on  this  wharf  before. 
Waiter  picked  up  the  shoe,  and  put  it  on  the  little  foot 
as  the  Prince  in  the  story  might  have  fitted  Cinderella’s 
slipper  on.  He  hung  the  rabbit-skin  over  his  left  arm  ; 
gave  the  right  to  Florence  : and  felt  not  to  say  like  Rich- 
ard Whittington — that  is  a tame  comparison — but  like 


CAN  YOU  V/ANT  WITH  DOMBEY  AND  SON’S  ? 


-K 


VOL.  11 


410 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Saint  George  of  England,  with  the  dragon  lying  dead 
before  him. 

“ Don’t  cry,  Miss  Dombey,”  said  Walter,  in  a transport 
of  enthusiasm.  “ What  a wonderful  thing  for  me 
that  I am  here.  You  are  as  safe  now  as  if  you  were 
guarded  by  a whole  boat’s  crew  of  picked  men  from  a 
man-of-war.  Oh  don’t  cry.” 

“ I won’t  cry  any  more,”  said  Florence.  “ I am  only 
crying  for  joy.” 

“ Crying  for  joy  ! ” thought  Walter,  “ and  I’m  the 
cause  of  it.  Come  along,  Miss  Dombey.  There’s  tfo# 
other  shoe  off  now  ! Take  mine,  Miss  Dombey.” 

“ No,  no,  no,”  said  Florence,  checking  him  in  the  act 
of  impetuously  pulling  off  his  own.  “ These  do  better. 
These  do  very  well.” 

“ Why,  to  be  sure,”  said  Walter,  glancing  at  her  foot, 
“ mine  are  a mile  too  large.  What  am  I thinking  about ! 
You  never  could  walk  in  mine  ! Come  along,  Miss  Dom- 
bey. Let  me  see  the  villain  who  will  dare  molest  you 
now.” 

So  Walter,  looking  immensely  fierce,  led  off  Florence, 
looking  very  happy  ; and  they  went  arm  in  arm  along 
the  streets,  perfectly  indifferent  to  any  astonishment 
that  their  appearance  might  or  did  excite  by  the  way. 

It  was  growing  dark  and  foggy,  and  beginning  to  rain 
too  ; but  they  cared  nothing  for  this  : being  both  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  late  adventures  of  Florence,  which  she 
related  with  the  innocent  good  faith  and  confidence  of 
her  years,  while  Walter  listened,  as  if,  far  from  the  mud 
and  grease  of  Thames-street,  they  were  rambling  alone 
among  the  broad  leaves  and  tall  trees  of  some  desert 
island  in  the  tropics — as  he  very  likely  fancied,  for  the 
time,  they  were. 

“ Have  we  far  to  go?”  asked  Florence  at  last,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  her  companion’s  face. 

“ Ah  ! By  the  bye,”  said  Walter,  stopping,  “ let  me 
see  ; where  are  we  ? Oh  ! I know.  But  the  offices  are 
shut  up  now.  Miss  Dombey.  There’s  nobody  there.  Mr. 
Dombey  has  gone  home  long  ago.  I suppose  we  must 
go  home  too  ? or,  stay.  Suppose  I take  you  to  my 
uncle’s,  where  I live — it’s  very  near  here — and  go  to 
your  house  in  a coach  to  tell  them  you  are  safe,  and 
bring  you  back  some  clothes.  Won’t  that  be  best  ? ” 

“ I think  so,”  answered  Florence.  “ Don’t  you  ? What 
do  you  think  ? ” 

As  they  stood  deliberating  in  the  street,  a man  passed 
them,  who  glanced  quickly  at  Walter  as  lie  went  by,  as 
if  he  recognised  him  ; but  seeming  to  correct  that  first 
impression,  he  passed  on  without  stopping. 

‘‘Why,!  think  it’s  Mr.  Carker,”  said  Walter,  “Carker 
in  our  House.  Not  Carker  our  manager,  Miss  Dombey 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


411 


—the  other  Carker  ; the  junior — Halloa  ! Mr.  Carker  ! ’’ 

“ Is  that  Walter  Gay  ? ” said  the  other,  stopping  and 
returning.  ‘f  I couldn't  believe  it,  with  such  a strange 
companion.  ” 

As  he  stood  near  a lamp,  listening  with  surprise  to 
Walter's  hurried  explanation,  he  presented  a remark- 
able contrast  to  the  two  youthful  figures  arm-in-arm 
before  him.  He  was  not  old,  but  his  hair  was  white  ; 
his  body  was  bent,  or  bowed  as  if  by  the  weight  of  some 
great  trouble  ; and  there  were  deep  lines  in  his  worn 
and  melancholy  face.  The  fire  of  his  eyes,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  features,  the  very  voice  in  which  he  spoke, 
were  all  subdued  and  quenched,  as  if  the  spirit  within 
him  lay  in  ashes.  He  was  respectably,  though  very 
plainly" dressed  in  black  ; but  his  clothes,  moulded  to 
the  general  character  of  his  figure,  seemed  to  shrink 
and  abase  themselves  upon  him,  and  to  join  in  the 
sorrowful  solicitation  which  the  whole  man  from  head 
to  foot  expressed,  to  be  left  unnoticed,  and  alone  in  his 
humility. 

And  yet  his  interest  in  youth  and  hopefulness  was  not 
extinguished  with  the  other  embers  of  his  soul,  for  he 
watched  the  boy’s  earnest  countenance  as  he  spoke  with 
unusual  sympathy,  though  with  an  inexplicable  show 
of  trouble  and  compassion,  which  escaped  into  his  looks, 
however  hard  he  strove  to  hold  it  prisoner.  When 
Walter,  in  conclusion,  put  to  him  the  question  he  had 
put  to  Florence,  he  still  stood  glancing  at  him  with  the 
same  expression,  as  if  he  read  some  fate  upon  his  face, 
mournfully  at  variance  with  its  present  brightness. 

“ What  do  you  advise,  Mr.  Carker?”  said  Walter, 
smiling.  “ You  always  give  me  good  advice,  you  know, 
when  you  do  speak  to  me.  That’s  not  often,  though.” 

‘ ‘I  think  your  own  idea  is  the  best,”  he  answered: 
looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  back  again. 

“Mr.  Carker,”  said  Walter,  brightening  with  a gen- 
erous thought,  “Come  ! Here’s  a chance  for  you.  Go 
you  to  Mr.  Dombey’s,  and  be  the  messenger  of  good 
news.  * It  may  do  you  some  good,  sir.  I’ll  remain  at 
home.  You  shall  go.” 

“I  ! ” returned  the  other,. 

Yes.  Why  not,  Mr.  Carker?”  said  the  boy. 

He  merely  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  answer  ; he 
seemed  in  a manner  ashamed  and  afraid  even  to  di  that ; 
and  bidding  him  good  night,  and  advising  him  to  make 
haste,  turned  away. 

“Come,  Miss  Dombey,”  said  Walter,  looking  after 
him  as  they  turned  away  also,  “ we’ll  go  to  my  uncle’s 
as  quick  as  we  can.  Did  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Dombey 
.speak  of  Mr.  Carker  the  junior,  Miss  Florence?” 

“ No/’  returned  the  child,  mildly,  “ I don’t  often  hear 
papa  speak.” 


412 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ All  l true  ! more  shame  for  him,”  thought  Walter. 
After  a minute’s  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  look- 
ing down  upon  the  gentle  patient  little  face  moving  on 
at  his  side,  he  bestirred  himself  with  his  accustomed 
boyish  animation  and  restlessness  to  change  the  subject ; 
and  one  of  the  unfortunate  shoes  coming  off  again  op- 
portunely, proposed  to  carry  Florence  to  his  uncle’s  in 
his  arms.  Florence,  though  very  tired,  laughingly  de- 
clined the  proposal,  lest  he  should  let  her  fall  ; and  as 
they  were  already  near  the  wooden  midshipman,  and  as 
Walter  went  on  to  cite  various  precedents,  from  ship- 
wrecks and  other  moving  accidents,  where  younger  boys 
than  he  had  triumphantly  rescued  and  carried  off  older 
girls  than  Florence,  they  were  still  in  full  conversation 
about  it  when  they  arrived  at  the  Instrument- maker’s 
door. 

“Halloa,  Uncle  Sol!”  cried  Walter,  bursting  into 
the  shop,  and  speaking  incoherently,  and  out  of  breath, 
from  that  time  forth,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
“Here’s  a wonderful  adventure  ! Here’s  Mr.  Dombey’s 
daughter  lost  in  the  streets,  and  robbed  of  her  clothes  by 
an  old  witch  of  a woman — found  by  me — brought  home 
to  our  parlour  to  rest — look  here  ! ” 

“ Good  Heaven  !”  said  Uncle  Sol,  starting  back  against 
his  favourite  compass-case.  “ It  can’t  be  ! Well,  I — ” 

“No,  nor  anybody  else,”  said  Walter,  anticipating 
the  rest.  “Nobody  would,  nobody  could,  you  know. 
Here  ! just  help  me  lift  the  little  sofa  near  the  fire,  will 
you,  Uncle  Sol— -take  care  of  the  plates — cut  some  dinner 
for  her,  will  you  uncle — throw  those  shoes  under  the 
grate,  Miss  Florence — put  your  feet  on  the  fender  to 
dry — how  damp  they  are — here’s  an  adventure,  uncle, 
eh  ? — God  bless  my  soul,  how  hot  I am  ! ” 

Solomon  Gills  was  quite  as  hot,  by  sympathy,  and  in 
excessive  bewilderment.  He  patted  Florence’s  head, 
pressed  her  to  eat,  pressed  her  to  drink,  rubbed  the 
soles  of  her  feet  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  heated 
at  the  fire,  followed  his  locomotive  nephew  with  his 
eyes,  and  ears,  and  had  no  clear  perception  of  anything 
except  that  he  was  being  constantly  knocked  against 
and  tumbled  over  by  that  excited  young  gentleman,  as 
he  darted  about  the  room  attempting  to  accomplish 
twenty  things  at  once,  and  doing  nothing  at  all. 

“Here,  wait  a minute,  uncle.”  he  continued,  catching 
up  a candle,  “till  I run  up-stairs,  and  get  another  jacket 
on,  and  then  I’ll  be  off.  I say,  uncle,  isn’t  this  an  ad- 
venture ? ” 

“My  dear  boy,”  said  Solomon,  who,  with  his  specta- 
cles on  his  forehead  and  the  great  chronometer  in  his 
pocket,  was  incessantly  oscillating  between  Florence  on 
the  sofa  and  his  nephew  in  all  parts  of  the  parlour, 
“it’s  the  most  extraordinary — ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


413 


“No,  but  do,  uncle,  please— do,  Miss  Florence— din- 
ner, you  know,  uncle.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  yes,”  cried  Solomon,  cutting  instantly  into 
a leg  of  mutton,  as  if  he  were  catering  for  a giant.  “I’ll 
take  care  of  her,  Wally  ! I understand.  Pretty  dear  ! 
Famished,  of  course.  You  go  and  get  ready.  Lord  bless 
me  ! Sir  Richard  Whittington  thrice  Lord  Mayor  of 
London  ! ” 

Walter  was  not  very  long  in  mounting  to  his  lofty 

§ arret  and  descending  from  it,  but  in  the  mean  time 
'lorence,  overcome  by  fatigue,  had  sunk  into  a doze  be- 
fore the  fire.  The  short  interval  of  quiet,  though  only  a 
few  minutes  in  duration,  enabled  Solomon  Gills  so  far 
to  collect  his  wits  as  to  make  some  little  arrangements 
for  her  comfort,  and  to  darken  the  room,  and  to  screen 
her  from  the  blaze.  Thus,  when  the  boy  returned,  she 
was  sleeping  peacefully. 

“ That’s  capital !”  he  whispered,  giving  Solomon  such 
ft  hug  that  it  squeezed  a new  expression  into  his  face. 
a'Now  Pm  off.  I’ll  just  take  a crust  of  bread  with  me, 
for  I’m  very  hungry — and— don’t  wake  her.  Uncle  Sol.” 
“No,  no,”  said  Solomon.  “Pretty  child.” 

“ Pretty,  indeed  ! ” cried  Walter.  “ I never  saw  suck 
a face,  Uncle  Sol.  Now  I’m  off.” 

“That’s  right,”  said  Solomon,  greatly  relieved. 

“I  say,  Uncle  Sol,”  cried  Walter,  putting  his  face  ha 
at  the  door. 

“ Here  he  is  again,”  said  Solomon. 

“ How  does  she  look  now  ? ” 

“ Quite  happy,”  said  Solomon. 

“ That’s  famous  ! now  I’m  off.” 

“ I hope  you  are,”  said  Solomon  to  himself. 

“ I say,  Uncle  Sol,”  cried  Walter,  reappearing  at  th© 
door. 

“ Here  he  is  again  !”  said  Solomon. 

“We  met  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  in  the  street,  queerer 
than  ever.  He  bade  me  good  bye,  but  came  behind  ns 
here — there’s  an  odd  thing  ! — for  when  we  reached  the 
shop  door,  I looked  round,  and  saw  him  going  quietly 
away,  like  a servant  who  had  seen  me  home,  or  a faith- 
ful dog.  How  does  she  look  now,  uncle?” 

“Pretty  much  the  same  as  before,  Wally,”  replied 
Uncle  Sol. 

“ That’s  right.  Now  I am  off  ! ” 

And  this  lime  he  really  was  : and  Solomon  Gills,  with 
no  appetite  for  dinner,  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fire,  watching  Florence  in  her  slumber,  building  a great 
many  airy  castles  of  the  most  fantastic  architecture  ; and 
looking  in  the  dim  shade,  and  in  the  close  vicinity  of  ail 
the  instruments,  like  a magician  disguised  in  a Welsh 
wig  and  a suit  of  coffee  colour,  who  held  the  child  in  an 
enchanted  sleep. 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


414 


In  the  meantime  Walter  proceeded  towards  Mr.  Dorn- 
bey’s  house  at  a pace  seldom  achieved  by  a hack  horse 
from  the  stand ; and  yet  with  his  head  out  of  window 
every  two  or  three  minutes,  in  impatient  remonstrance 
with  the  driver.  Arriving  at  his  journey’s  end,  he 
leaped  out,  and  breathlessly  announcing  his  errand  to 
the  servant,  followed  him  straight  into  the  library,  where 
there  was  a great  confusion  of  tongues,  and  where  Mr. 
Dombey,  his  sister,  and  Miss  Tos,  Richards,  and  Nipper* 
were  all  congregated  together. 

“Oh  ! I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Walter,  rushing 
up  to  him,  “but  I’m  happy  to  say  it’s  all  right,  sir.  Miss 
Dombey’ s found  !” 

The  boy  with  his  open  face,  and  flowing  hair,  and 
sparkling  eyes,  panting  with  pleasure  and  excitement, 
was  wonderfully  opposed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  as  he  sat  con- 
fronting him  in  his  library  chair. 

“I  told  you,  Louisa,  that  she  would  certainly  be 
found,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  slightly  over  his 
shoulder  at  that  lady,  who  wept  in  company  with  Miss 
Tox.  “ Let  the  servants  know  that  no  further  steps  are 
necessary.  This  boy  who  brings  the  information,  is 
young  Gay,  from  the  office.  How  was  my  daughter 
found,  sir  ? I know  how  she  was  lost.”  Here  he  looked 
majestically  at  Richards.  “But  how  was  she  found? 
who  found  her?  ” 

“ Why,  I believe  I found  Miss  Dombey,  sir,”  said 
Walter  modestly ; “at  least  I don’t  know  that  I can 
claim  the  merit  of  having  exactly  found  her,  sir,  but  I 
was  the  fortunate  instrument  of — ” 

“ What  do  you  mean,  sir,”  interrupted  Mr.  Dombey, 
regarding  the  boy’s  evident  pride  and  pleasure  in  his 
share  of  the  transaction  with  an  instinctive  dislike,  “by 
not  having  exactly  found  my  daughter,  and  by  being  a 
fortunate  instrument?  Be  plain  and  coherent,  if  you 
please.” 

It  was  quite  out  of  Walter’s  power  to  be  coherent ; but 
he  rendered  himself  as  explanatory  as  he  could,  in  his 
breathless  state,  and  stated  why  he  had  come  alone. 

“You  hear  this,  girl  ?”  said  Mr.  Dombey  sternly  to 
the  black  eyed.  “Take  what  is  necessary,  and  return 
immediately  with  this  young  man  to  fetch  Miss  Florence 
home.  Gay,  you  will  be  rewarded  to-morrow.” 

“Oh  ! thank  you,  sir,”  said  Waiter.  “You  are  very 
kind.  I’m  sure  I was  not  thinking  of  any  reward,  sir.” 

“You  are  a boy,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  suddenly  and  ah 
most  fiercely  ; “ and  what  you  think  of,  or  affect  to  think 
of,  is  of  little  consequence.  You  have  done  well,  sir. 
Don’t  undo  it.  Louisa,  please  to  give  the  lad  some  wine. K 

Mr.  Dombey’ s giance  followed  Walter  Gay  with  sharp 
disfavour,  as  he  left  the  room  under  the  pilotage  of  Mrse 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


415 


Chick  ; and  it  may  be  that  his  mind's  eye  followed  him 
with  no  greater  relish  as  he  rode  back  to  his  uncle’s  with 
Miss  Susan  Nipper. 

There  they  found  that  Florence,  much  refreshed  by 
sleep,  had  dined,  and  greatly  improved  the  acquaintance 
of  Solomon  Gills,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  per 
feet  confidence  and  ease.  The  black-eyed  (who  had 
cried  so  much  that  she  might  now  be  called  the  red- eyed, 
and  who  was  very  silent  and  depressed)  caught  her  in 
her  arms  without  a word  of  contradiction  or  reproach, 
and  made  a very  hysterical  meeting  of  it.  Then  con- 
verting the  parlour  for  the  nonce,  into  a private  tyring 
room,  she  dressed  her,  with  great  care,  in  proper  clothes  ; 
and  presently  led  her  forth,  as  like  a Dombey  as  her 
natural  disqualifications  admitted  of  her  being  made. 

“ Good  night ! ” said  Florence,  running  up  to  Solomon, 
“ You  have  been  very  good  to  me.” 

Old  Sol  was  quite  delighted,  and  kissed  her  like  her 
grandfather. 

“ Good  night,  Walter  ! Good  bye  ! ” said  Florence. 

“ Good  bye  !”  said  Walter,  giving  both  his  hands. 

“ I’ll  never  forget  you,”  pursued  Florence.  “No  ! in- 
deed I never  will.  Good  bye,  Walter  !” 

In  the  innocence  of  her  grateful  heart,  the  child  lifted 
up  her  face  to  his.  Walter,  bending  down  his  own, 
raised  it  again,  all  red  and  burning  ; and  looked  at  Uncle 
Sol,  quite  sheepishly. 

“ Where’s  Walter?”  “ Good  night,  Walter  ! ” “Good 
bye,  Walter!”  “Shake  hands,  once  more,  Walter!” 
This  was  still  Florence’s  cry,  after  she  was  shut  up  with 
her  little  maid,  in  the  coach.  And  when  the  coach  at 
length  moved  oft,  Walter  on  the  doorstep  gaily  returned 
the  waving  of  her  handkerchief,  while  the  wooden  mid- 
shipman behind  him  seemed,  like  himself,  intent  upon 
that  coach  alone,  excluding  all  the  other  passing  coaches 
from  his  observation. 

In  good  time  Mr.  Dombey’s  mansion  was  gained  again, 
and  again  there  was  a noise  of  tongues  in  the  library. 
Again,  too,  the  coach  was  ordered  to  wait — for  Mrs. 
Richards,”  one  of  Susan’s  fellow-servants  ominously 
vhispered,  as  she  passed  with  Florence, 

The  entrance  of  the  lost  child  made  a slight  sensation, 
but  not  much.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  never  found  her, 
kissed  her  once  upon  the  forehead,  and  cautioned  her 
not  to  run  away  again,  or  wander  anywhere  with  treach- 
erous attendants.  Mrs.  Chick  stopped  in  her  lamenta- 
tions on  the  corruption  of  human  nature,  even  wdien 
beckoned  to  the  paths  of  virtue  by  a Charitable  Grinder  ; 
and  received  her  with  a welcome  something  short  of  the 
reception  due  to  none  but  perfect  * Dombey  s.  Miss  Tox 
regulated  her  feelings  by  the  models  before  her.  Rich- 


416 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ards,  the  culprit  Richards,  alone  poured  out  her  heart  in 
broken  words  of  welcome,  and  bowed  herself  over  the 
little  wandering  head  as  if  she  really  loved  it. 

“ Ah  Richards  ! ” said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a sigh.  “ It 
would  have  been  much  more  satisfactory  to  those  who 
wish  to  think  well  of  their  fellow  creatures,  and  much 
more  becoming  in  you,  if  you  had  shown  some  proper 
feeling,  in  time,  for  the  little  child  that  is  now  going  to 
be  prematurely  deprived  of  its  natural  nourishment.” 

“Cut  off,”  said  Miss  Tox,  in  a plaintive  whisper, 
“ from  one  common  fountain  ! ” 

“If  it  was  my  ungrateful  case,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  sol- 
emnly, “and  I had  your  reflections,  Richards,  I should 
feel  as  if  the  Charitable  Grinders’  dress  would  blight  my 
child,  and  the  education  choke  him.  ” 

For  the  matter  of  that — but  Mrs.  Chick  didn’t  know  it 
—he  had  been  pretty  well  blighted  by  the  dress  already  ; 
and  as  to  the  education,  even  its  retributive  effect  might 
be  produced  in  time,  for  it  was  a storm  of  sobs  and  blows. 

“ Louisa  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey.  “ It  is  not  necessary  to 
prolong  these  observations.  The  woman  is  discharged 
and  paid.  You  leave  this  house,  Richards,  for  talking 
my  son — my  son,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  emphatically  re- 
peating these  two  words,  “into  haunts  and  into  society 
which  are  not  to  be  thought  of  without  a shudder.  As 
to  the  accident  which  befell  Miss  Florence  this  morning, 
I regard  that,  as,  in  one  great  sense,  a happy  and  fortu^ 
nate  circumstance  ; inasmuch  as,  but  for  that  occurrence, 
I never  could  have  known — and  from  your  own  lips  too 
— of  what  you  had  been  guilty.  I think,  Louisa,  the 
other  nurse,  the  young  person,”  here  Miss  Nipper  sobbed 
aloud,  “ being  so  much  younger,  and  necessarily  influ- 
enced by  Paul’s  nurse,  may  remain.  Have  the  goodness 
to  direct  that  this  woman’s  coach  is  paid  to — ” Mr.  Dom- 
bey stopped  and  winced — “ to  Staggs’s  Gardens.” 

Polly  moved  towards  the  door,  with  Florence  holding 
to  her  dress,  and  crying  to  her  in  the  most  pathetic  man- 
ner not  to  go  away.  It  was  a dagger  in  the  haughty 
father’s  heart,  an  arrow  in  his  brain,  to  see  how  the  flesh 
and  blood  he  could  not  disown  clung  to  this  obscure 
stranger,  and  he  sitting  by.  Not  that  he  cared  to  whom 
his  daughter  turned,  or  from  whom  turned  away.  The 
swift  sharp  agony  struck  through  him,  as  he  thought  of 
what  his  son  might  do. 

His  son  cried  lustily  that  night,  at  all  events.  Sooth 
to  say,  poor  Paul  had  better  reason  for  his  tears  than 
sons  of  that  age  often  have,  for  he  had  lost  his  second 
mother — his  first,  so  far  as  he  knew — by  a stroke  as  sud- 
den as  that  natural  affliction  which  had  darkened  the  be- 
ginning of  his  life.  At  the  same  blow,  his  sister  too, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


417 


who  cried  herself  to  sleep  so  mournfully,  had  lost 
as  good  and  true  a. friend.  But  that  is  quite  beside  the 
question.  Let  us  waste  no  words  about  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A Bird's-eye  Glimpse  of  Miss -Tox' s Dwelling-place ; also  of  the 
State  of  Miss  Tox's  Affections. 

Miss  Tox  inhabited  a dark  little  house  that  had  been 
squeezed,  at  some  remote  period  of  English  History, 
into  a fashionable  neighbourhood  at  the  west  end  of  the 
town,  where  it  stood  in  the  shade  like  a poor  relation 
of  the  great  street  round  the  corner,  coldly  looked  down 
upon  by  mighty  mansions.  It  was  not  exactly  in  a 
court,  and  it  was  not  exactly  in  a yard  ; but  it  was  in  tha 
dullest  of  No- Thoroughfares,  rendered  anxious  and  hag- 
gard by  distant  double  knocks.  The  name  of  this  re- 
tirement, where  grass  grew  between  the  chinks  in  the 
stone  pavement,  was  Princess’s-place  ; and  in  Princess’s- 
place  was  Princess’s  Chapel,  with  a tinkling  bell,  where 
sometimes  as  many  as  five-and-t\tenty  people  attended 
service  on  a Sunday.  The  Princess’s  Arms  was  also 
there,  and  much  resorted  to  by  splendid  footmen.  A se- 
dan chair  was  kept  inside  the  railing  before  the  Princess’s 
Arms,  but  it  had  never  come  out,  within  the  memory  of 
man  ; and  on  line  mornings  the  top  of  every  rail  (there 
are  eight- and-forty,  as  Miss  Tox  had  often  counted)  was 
decorated  with  a pewter- pot. 

There  was  another  private  house  besides  Miss  Tox’s 
in  Princess’s-place  : not  to  mention  an  immense  pair  of 
gates,  with  an  immense  pair  of  lion-headed  knockers  on 
them,  which  were  never  opened  by  any  chance,  and  were 
supposed  to  constitute  a disused  entrance  to  somebody’s 
stables.  Indeed,  there  was  a smack  of  stabling  in  the 
air  of  Princess’s-place  : and  Miss  Tox’s  bedroom  (which 
was  at  the  back)  commanded  a vista  of  Mews,  where 
hostlers,  at  whatever  sort  of  work  engaged,  were  con- 
tinually accompanying  themselves  with  effervescent 
noises  ; and  where  the  most  domestic  and  confidential 
garments  of  coachmen  and  their  wives  and  families, 
usually  hung,  like  Macbeth’s  banners,  on  the  outward 
walls. 

At  this  outer  private  house  in  Princess’s-place,tenanted 
by  a retired  butler  who  had  married  a housekeeper, 
apartments  were  let,  Furnished,  to  a single  gentleman  : to 
wit  a wooden -featured,  blue- faced,  Major,  with  his  eyes 
starting  out  of  his  head,  in  whom  Miss  Tox  recognised,  as 
she  herself  expressed  it,  “ something  so  truly  military  ; ” 
and  between  whom  and  herself,  an  occasional  inter- 


418 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


change  of  newspapers  and  pamphlets,  and  such  Platonic 
dalliance,  was  effected  through  the  medium  of  a dark 
servant  of  the  major’s  whom  Miss  Tox  was  quite  con- 
tent to  classify  as  a “ native,”  without  connecting  him 
with  any  geographical  idea  whatever. 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a smaller  entry  and  staircase, 
than  the  entry  and  staircase  of  Miss  Tox’s  house.  Per- 
haps, taken  altogether,  from  top  to  bottom,  it  was  the 
most  inconvenient  little  house  in  England,  and  the 
crookedest  ; but  then,  Miss  Tox  said,  what  a situation  f 
There  was  very  little  daylight  to  be  got  there  in  the 
winter  ; no  sun  at  the  best  of  times  : air  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  traffic  was  walled  out.  Still  Miss  Tox  said, 
think  of  the  situation  ! So  said  the  blue-faced  major, 
whose  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his  head  : who  gloried 
in  Princess’s-place  : and  who  delighted  to  turn  the  con- 
versation at  his  club,  whenever  he  could,  to  something 
connected  with  some  of  the  great  people  in  the  great 
street  round  the  corner,  that  he  might  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  saying  they  were  his  neighbours. 

The  dingy  tenement  inhabited  by  Miss  Tox  was  her 
own  ; having  been  devised  and  bequeathed  to  her  by  the 
deceased  owner  of  the  fishy  eye  in  the  locket,  of  whom 
a miniature  portrait,  with  a powdered  head  and  a pig- 
tail, balanced  the  kettle-holder  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
parlour  fire-place.  The  greater  part  of  the  furniture 
was  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail  period  : compris- 
ing a plate- warmer,  always  languishing  and  sprawling 
its  four  attenuated  bow  legs  in  somebody’s  way  ; and  an 
obsolete  harpsichord,  illuminated  round  the  maker’s 
name  with  a painted  garland  of  sweet  peas. 

Although  Major  Bagstock  had  arrived  at  what  is  called 
in  polite  literature,  the  grand  meridian  of  life,  and  was 
proceeding  on  his  journey  down-hill  with  hardly  any 
throat,  and  a very  rigid  pair  of  jaw  bones,  and  long- 
fiapped  elephantine  ears,  and  his  eyes  and  complexion 
in  the  state  of  artificial  excitement  already  mentioned, 
he  was  mightily  proud  of  awakening  an  interest  in  Miss 
Tox,  and  tickled  his  vanity  with  the  fiction  that  she  was 
a splendid  woman  who  had  her  eye  on  him.  This  he 
had  several  times  hinted  at  the  club  : in  connection  with 
little  jocularities,  of  which  old  Joe  Bagstock,  old  Joey 
Bagstock,  old  J.  Bagstock,  old  Josh  Bagstock,  or  so 
forth,  was  the  perpetual  theme  : it  being,  as  it  were,  the 
major’s  stronghold  and  donjon  keep  of  light  humour,  to 
be  on  the  most  familiar  terms  with  his  own  name. 

“ Joey  B.,  sir,”  the  major  would  say,  with  a flourish 
of  his  walking-stick,  “ is  worth  a dozen  of  you.  If  you 
had  a few  more  of  the  Bagstock  breed  among  you,  sir, 
you’d  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  Old  Joe,  sir,  needn’t 
look  far  for  a wife  even  now,  if  he  was  on  the  lookout ; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


419 


but  he’s  hard-hearted,  sir,  is  Joe— lie’s  tough,  sir,  tough, 
and  de-vilish  sly  !”  After  such  a declaration  wheezing 
sounds  would  be  heard  ; and  the  major’s  blue  eyes  would 
deepen  into  purple,  while  his  eyes  strained  and  started 
convulsively. 

Notwithstanding  his  very  liberal  laudation  of  himself, 
however,  the  major  was  selfish.  It  may  be  doubted 
^whether  there  ever  was  a more  entirely  selfish  person  at 
heart ; or  at  stomach  is  perhaps  a better  expression, 
seeing  that  he  was  more  decidedly  endowed  with  that 
latter  organ  than  with  the  former.  He  had  no  idea  of 
being  overlooked  or  slighted  by  anybody  ; least  of  all, 
had  lie  the  remotest  comprehension  of  being  overlooked 
and  slighted  by  Miss  Tox. 

And  yet,  Miss  Tox,  as  it  appeared,  forgot  him — grad- 
ually forgot  him.  She  began  to  forget  him  soon  after 
her  discovery  of  the  Toodle  family.  She  continued  to 
forget  him  up  to  the  time  of  the  christening.  She  went 
on  forgetting  him  with  compound  interest  after  that. 
Something  or  somebody  had  superseded  him  as  a source 
of  interest. 

“ Good  morning,  ma’am,”  said  the  major,  meeting  Miss 
Tox  in  Princess’ s-place,  some  weeks  after  the  changes 
chronicled  in  the  last  chapter. 

“Good  morning,  sir,”  said  Miss  Tox  ; very  coldly. 

“Joe  Bagstock,  ma’am,”  observed  the  major,  with 
his  usual  gallantry,  “ has  not  had  the  happiness  of 
bowing  to  you  at  your  window,  for  a considerable  period, 
Joe  has  been  hardly  used,  ma’am.  His  sun  has  been 
behind  a cloud.” 

Miss  Tox  inclined  her  head  ; but  very  coldly  indeed. 

“Joe’s  luminary  has  been  out  of  town  ma’am,  per- 
haps,” inquired  the  major. 

“I  ? out  of  town  ? oh  no,  I have  not  been  out  of  town,” 
*5aid  Miss  Tox.  “ I have  been  much  engaged  lately.  My 
time  is  nearly  all  devoted  to  some  very  intimate  friends. 
1 am  afraid  I have  none  to  spare,  even  now  Good 
morning,  sir  ! ” 

As  Miss  Tox,  with  her  most  fascinating  step  and  car- 
riage, disappeared  from  Princess’s-place,  the  major  stood 
looking  after  her  with  a bluer  face  than  ever  : mutter- 
ing and  growling  some  not  at  all  complimentary  re- 
marks. 

“ Why,  damme,  sir,”  said  the  major,  rolling  his  lob* 
ster  eyes  round  and  round  Princess’s-piace,  and  apostro- 
phising its  fragrant  air,  “six  months  ago,  the  woman 
loved  the  ground  Josh  Bagstock  walked  on.  What’s 
the  meaning  of  it  ? ” 

The  major  decided,  after  some  consideration,  that  it 
meant  man-traps  ; that  it  meant  plotting  and  snaring  j 
that  Miss  Tox  was  digging  pitfalls.  “But  you  won’t 


420 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


catch  Joe,  ma’am,”  said  the  major.  “ He’s  tough,  ma’am, 
tough,  is  J.  B.  Tough,  and  de-vilish  sly  ! ” over  which 
reflection  he  chuckled  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

But  still,  when  that  day  and  many  other  days  were 
gone  and  past,  it  seemed  that  Miss  Tox  took  no  heed 
whatever  of  the  major,  and  thought  nothing  at  all  about 
him.  She  had  been  wont,  once  upon  a time,  to  look  out 
at  one  of  her  little  dark  windows  by  accident,  and 
blushingly  return  the  major’s  greeting  ; but  now,  she 
never  gave  the  major  a chance,  and  cared  nothing  at  all 
whether  he  looked  over  the  way  or  not.  Other  changes 
had  come  to  pass  too.  The  major,  standing  in  the  shade 
of  his  own  apartment,  could  make  out  that  an  air  of 
greater  smartness  had  recently  come  over  Miss  Tox’s 
house  ; that  a new  cage  with  gilded  wires  had  been  pro- 
vided for  the  ancient  little  canary  bird  ; that  divers  orna- 
ments, cut  out  of  coloured  card-boards  and  paper,  seemed 
to  decorate  the  chimney-piece  and  tables  ; that  a plant 
or  two  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  the  windows  ; that 
Miss  Tox  occasionally  practised  on  the  harpsichord, 
whose  garland  of  sweet  peas  was  always  displayed  os- 
tentatiously, crowned  with  the  Copenhagen  and  Bird 
Waltzes  in  a music-book  of  Miss  Tox’s  own  copying. 

Over  and  above  all  this.  Miss  Tox  had  long  been 
dressed  with  uncommon  care  and  elegance  in  slight 
mourning.  But  this  helped  the  major  out  of  his  diffi- 
culty ; and  he  determined  within  himself  that  she  had 
come  into  a small  legacy,  and  grown  proud. 

It  was  on  the  very  next  day  after  he  had  eased  his 
mind  by  arriving  at  this  decision,  that  the  major,  sitting 
at  his  breakfast,  saw  an  apparition  so  tremendous  and 
wonderful  in  Miss  Tox’s  little  drawing-room,  that  he  re- 
mained for  some  time  rooted  to  his  chair  ; then,  rushing 
into  the  next  room  returned  with  a double-barreled  opera- 
glass,  through  which  he  surveyed  it  intently  for  some 
minutes. 

“It’s  a Baby,  sir,”  said  the  major,  shutting  up  the 
glass  again,  “ for  fifty  thousand  pounds  ! ” 

The  major  couldn’t  forget  it.  He  could  do  nothing 
but  whistle,  and  stare  to  that  extent,  that  his  eyes  com- 
pared with  what  they  now  became,  had  been  in  former 
times  quite  cavernous  and  sunken.  Day  after  day,  two, 
three,  four  times  a week,  this  baby  reappeared.  The 
major  continued  to  stare  and  whistle.  To  all  other 
intents  and  purposes  he  was  alone  in  Princess’ s-pl  ace. 
Miss  Tox  had  ceased  to  mind  what  he  did.  He  might 
have  been  black  as  well  as  blue,  and  it  would  have 
been  of  no  consequence  to  her. 

The  perseverance  with  which  she  walked  out  of  Prin- 
cess’s-place  to  fetch  this  baby  and  its  nurse,  and  walked 
back  with  them,  and  walked  home  with  them  again. 


DOMREY  AND  SON. 


m 


and  continually  mounted  guard  over  them  ; and  the  per- 
severance with  which  she  nursed  it  herself,  and  fed 
it,  and  played  with  it,  and  froze  its  young  blood  with 
airs  upon  the  harpsicord  ; was  extraordinary.  At  about 
the  same  period  too,  she  was  seized  with  a passion  for 
looking  at  a certain  bracelet ; also  with  a passion  for  look- 
ing at  the  moon,  of  which  she  would  take  long  obser- 
vations from  her  chamber  window.  But  whatever  she 
looked  at  ; sun,  moon,  stars,  or  bracelets  ; she  looked 
no  more  at  the  major.  And  the  major  whistled,  and 
stared,  and  wondered,  and  dodged  about  his  room,  and 
could  make  nothing  out  of  it. 

“ You'll  quite  win  my  brother  Paul's  heart,  and  that's 
the  truth,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  one  day. 

Miss  Tox  turned  pale. 

“He  grows  more  like  Paul  every  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick. 

Miss  Tox  returned  no  other  reply  than  by  taking  the 
little  Paul  in  her  arms,  and  making  his  cockade  per- 
fectly flat  and  limp  with  her  caresses. 

“His  mother,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Tox,  “ whose  ao* 
quaintance  I was  to  have  made  through  you,  does  he 
at  all  resemble  her?" 

“ Not  at  all,"  returned  Louisa. 

“ She  was — she  was  pretty,  I believe  ? " faltered  Miss 
Tox. 

“ Why,  poor  dear  Fanny  was  interesting,”  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  after  some  judicial  consideration.  “ Certainly 
interesting.  She  had  not  that  air  of  commanding  su- 
periority which  one  would  somehow  expect,  almost  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  find  in  my  brother's  wife  ; nor 
had  she  that  strength  and  vigour  of  mind  which  such 
a man  requires." 

Miss  Tox  heaved  a deep  sigh. 

“But  she  was  pleasing:"  said  Mrs.  Chick:  “ex- 
tremely so.  And  she  meant  ! — oh,  dear,  how  well  poor 
Fanny  meant ! " 

“You  angel  !"  cried  Miss  Tox  to  little  Paul.  “You 
picture  of  your  own  papa ! 99 

If  the  major  could  have  known  how  many  hopes  and 
ventures,  what  a multitude  of  plans  and  speculations, 
rested  on  that  baby  head  ; and  could  have  seen  them 
hovering,  in  all  their  heterogeneous  confusion  and  dis- 
order, round  the  puckered  cap  of  the  unconscious  lit- 
tle Paul  ; he  might  have  stared  indeed.  Then  would  he 
have  recognised,  among  the  crowd,  some  few  ambitious 
motes  and  beams  belonging  to  Miss  Tox  : then  would  he 
perhaps  have  understood  the  nature  of  that  lady's  falter- 
ing investment  in  the  Dombey  Firm. 

I?  the  child  himself  could  have  awakened  in  the  night, 
and  seen,  gathered  about  his  cradle-curtains,  faint  re- 


432 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


flections  of  the  dreams  that  other  people  had  of  him,  they 
might  have  scared  him,  with  good  reason.  But  he  slum- 
bered on,  alike  unconscious  of  the  kind  intentions  of 
Miss  Tox,  the  wonder  of  the  major,  the  early  sorrows  of 
his  sister,  and  the  sterner  visions  of  his  father  ; and  in- 
nocent that  any  spot  of  earth  contained  a Dombey  or  a 
Son> 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Paul's  further  Progress , Growth,  and  Character. 

Beneath  the  watching  and  attentive  eyes  of  Time— 
go  far  another  Major — Paul’s  slumbers  gradually  changed. 
More  and  more  light  broke  in  upon  them  ; distincter  and 
distincter  dreams  disturbed  them;  an  accumulating  crowd 
of  objects  and  impressions  swarmed  about  his  rest  ; and 
so  he  passed  from  babyhood  to  childhood,  and  became 
a talking,  walking,  wondering  Dombey. 

On  the  downfall  and  banishment  of  Richards,  the 
nursery  may  be  said  to  have  been  put  into  commission  ; 
as  a Public  Department  is  sometimes,  when  no  individual 
Atlas  can  be  found  to  support  it.  The  Commissioners 
were,  of  course,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  : who  devoted 
themselves  to  their  duties  with  such  astonishing  ardour 
that  Major  Bagstock  had  every  day  some  new  reminder 
of  his  being  forsaken,  while  Mr.  Chick,  bereft  of  domes- 
tic supervision,  cast  himself  upon  the  gay  world,  dined 
at  clubs  and  coffee-houses,  smelt  of  smoke  on  three  dis- 
tinct occasions,  went  to  the  play  by  himself,  and  in 
short,  loosened  (as  Mrs.  Chick  once  told  him)  every  social 
bond,  and  moral  obligation. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  his  early  promise,  ail  this  vigilance 
and  care  could  not  make  little  Paul  a thriving  boy. 
Naturally  delicate,  perhaps,  he  pined  and  wasted  after 
the  dismissal  of  his  nurse,  and,  for  a long  time,  seemed 
but  to  wait  his  opportunity  of  gliding  through  their 
hands,  and  seeking  his  lost  mother.  This  dangerous 
ground  in  his  steeple-chase  towards  manhood  passed,  he 
still  found  it  very  rough  riding,  and  was  grieviously  be- 
set by  all  the  obstacles  in  his  course.  Every  tooth  was 
a break-neck  fence,  and  every  pimple  in  the  measles  a 
stone  wall  to  him.  He  was  down  in  every  fit  of  the 
hooping-cough,  and  rolled  upon  and  crushed  by  a whole 
field  of  small  diseases,  that  came  trooping  on  each  other’s 
heels  to  prevent  his  getting  up  again.  Some  bird  of 
prey  got  into  his  throat  instead  of  the  thrush  ; and  the 
very  chickens  turning  ferocious — if  they  have  anything 
to  do  with  that  infant  malady  to  which  they  lend  their 
name — worried  him  like  tiger-cats. 

The  chill  of  Paul’s  christening  had  struck  home,  per- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


423 


haps  to  some  sensitive  part  of  his  nature,  which  could 
not  recover  itself  in  the  cold  shade  of  his  father  ; but 
he  was  an  unfortunate  child  from  that  day.  Mrs. 
Wickam  often  said  she  never  see  a dear  so  put  upon. 

Mrs.  Wickam  was  a waiter’s  wife — which  would  seem 
equivalent  to  being  any  other  man’s  widow — whose  ap- 
plication for  an  engagement  in  Mr.  Dombey’s  service  had 
been  favourably  considered,  on  account  of  the  apparent 
impossibility  of  her  having  any  followers,  or  any  one  to 
follow  ; and  who,  from  within  a day  or  two  of  Paul’s 
sharp  weaning,  had  been  engaged  as  his  nurse.  Mrs. 
Wickam  was  a meek  woman,  of  a fair  complexion, 
with  her  eyebrows  always  elevated,  and  her  head  al- 
ways drooping  ; who  was  always  ready  to  pity  herself, 
or  to  be  pitied,  or  to  pity  anybody  else  ; and  who  had  a 
surprising  natural  gift  of  viewing  all  subjects  in  an  ut- 
terly forlorn  and  pitiable  light,  and  bringing  dreadful 
precedents  to  bear  upon  them,  and  deriving  the  greatest 
consolation  from  the  exercise  of  that  talent. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe  that  no  touch  of  this 
quality  ever  reached  the  magnificent  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Dombey.  It  would  have  been  remarkable,  indeed,  if 
any  had ; when  no  one  in  the  house — not  even  Mrs. 
Chick  or  Miss  Tox — dared  ever  whisper  to  him  that 
there  had,  on  any  one  occasion,  been  the  least  reason  for 
uneasiness  in  reference  to  little  Paul.  He  had  settled, 
within  himself,  that  the  child  must  necessarily  pass 
through  a certain  routine  of  minor  maladies,  and  that 
the  sooner  he  did  so  the  better. 

If  he  could  have  bought  him  off,  or  provided  a substi- 
tute, as  in  the  case  of  an  unlucky  drawing  for  the  mil- 
itia, he  would  have  been  glad  to  do  so  on  liberal  terms. 
But  as  this  was  not  feasible,  he  merely  wondered,  in 
his  haughty  manner,  now  and  then,  what  nature  meant 
by  it ; and  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
there  was  another  milestone  passed  upon  the  road,  and 
that  the  great  end  of  the  journey  lay  so  much  the  nearer. 
For  the  feeling  uppermost  in  his  mind,  now  and  con- 
stantly intensifying,  and  increasing  in  it  as  Paul  grew 
older,  was  impatience.  Impatience  for  the  time  to  come, 
when  his  visions  of  their  united  consequence  and  gran- 
deur would  be  triumphantly  realised. 

Some  philosophers  tell  us  that  selfishness  is  at  the  root 
of  our  best  loves  and  affections.  Mr.  Dombey’s  young 
child  was,  from  the  beginning,  so  distinctly  important  to 
him  as  a part  of  his  own  greatness,  or  (which  is  the  same 
thing)  of  the  greatness  of  Dombey  and  Son,  that  there 
is  no  doubt  his  parental  affection  might  have  been  easily 
traced,  like  many  a goodly  superstructure  of  fair  fame, 
to  a very  low  foundation.  But  he  loved  his  son  with  all 
the  love  he  had.  If  there  were  a warm  place  in  his 


424  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

frosty  heart,  his  son  occupied  it ; if  its  very  hard  sur- 
face could  receive  the  impression  of  any  image,  the  im- 
age of  that  son  was  there  ; though  not  so  much  as  an 
infant,  or  as  a hoy,  but  as  a grown  man — the  “ Son”  of 
the  Firm.  Therefore  he  was  impatient  to  advance  into 
the  future,  and  to  hurry  over  the  intervening  passages 
of  his  history.  Therefore  he  had  little  or  no  anxiety 
about  them,  in  spite  of  his  love  ; feeling  as  if  the  boy 
had  a charmed  life,  and  must  become  the  man  with 
whom  he  held  such  constant  communication  in  his 
thoughts,  and  for  whom  he  planned  and  projected,  as 
for  an  existing  reality,  every  day. 

Thus  Paul  grew  to  be  nearly  five  years  old.  He  was 
a pretty  little  fellow  ; though  there  was  something  wan 
and  wistful  in  his  small  face,  that  gave  occasion  to  many 
significant  shakes  of  Mrs.  Wickam’s  head,  and  many 
long-drawn  inspirations  of  Mrs.  Wickam’s  breath.  His 
temper  gave  abundant  promise  of  being  imperious  in 
after-life  ; and  he  had  as  hopeful  an  apprehension  of  his 
own  importance,  and  the  rightful  subservience  of  all 
other  things  and  persons  to  it,  as  heart  could  desire. 
He  was  childish  and  sportive  enough  at  times,  and  not 
of  a sullen  disposition  ; but  he  had  a strange  old-fashi- 
oned, thoughtful  way,  at  other  times,  of  sitting  brooding 
in  his  miniature  arm-chair,  when  he  looked  (and  talked) 
like  one  of  those  terrible  little  Beings  in  the  Fairy  tales, 
who,  at  a hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  years  of 
age,  fantastically  represented  the  children  for  whom 
they  have  been  substituted.  He  would  frequently  be 
stricken  with  this  precocious  mood  up-stairs,  in  the 
nursery  ; and  would  sometimes  lapse  into  it  suddenly 
saxclaiming  that  ne  was  tired  : even  while  playing  with 
Florence,  or  driving  Miss  Tox  in  single  harness.  But  at 
no  time  did  he  fall  into  it  so  surely,  as  when,  his  little 
chair  being  carried  down  into  his  father’s  room,  he  sat 
there  with  him  after  dinner,  by  the  fire.  They  were  the 
strangest  pair  at  such  a time  that  ever  firelight  shone 
upon.  Mr.  Bom  bey  so  erect  and  solemn,  gazing  at  the 
blaze  ; his  little  image,  with  an  old,  old,  face,  peering 
into  the  red  perspective  with  the  fixed  and  rapt  attention 
of  a sage.  Mr.  Dombey  entertaining  complicated  worldly 
schemes  and  plans ; the  little  image  entertaining  Heaven 
knows  what  wild  fancies,  half-formed  thoughts,  and 
wandering  speculations.  Mr.  Dombey  stiff  with  starch 
and  arrogance  ; the  little  image  by  inheritance,  and  in 
unconscious  imitation.  The  two  so  very  much  alike, 
and  yet  so  monstrously  contrasted. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  they  had  both  been 
perfectly  quiet  for  a long  time,  and  Mr.  Dombey  only 
knew  that  the  child  was  awake  by  occasionally  glancing 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


425 


at  his  eye,  where  the  bright  fire  was  sparkling  like  a 
jewel,  little  Paul  broke  silence  thus  : 

“ Papa  ! what’s  money  ? ” 

The  abrupt  question  had  such  immediate  reference  to 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  thoughts,  that  Mr.  Dombey 
was  quite  disconcerted. 

“ What  is  money,  Paul  ? ” he  answered.  “ Money  ?” 

“ Yes/’  said  the  child,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  eh 
bows  of  his  little  chair,  and  turning  the  old  face  up  to- 
wards Mr.  Dombey’s  ; “ what  is  money  ? ” 

Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a difficulty.  He  would  have  liked 
to  give  him  some  explanation  involving  the  terms  circu- 
lating-medium, currency,  depreciation  of  currency,  pa- 
per, bullion,  rates  of  exchange,  value  of  precious  met- 
als in  the  market,  and  so  forth  ; but  looking  down  at 
the  little  chair,  and  seeing  what  a long  way  down  it 
was,  he  answered : “ Gold,  and  silver,  and  copper. 
Guineas,  shillings,  half-pence.  You  know  what  they 
are  ? ” 

“Oh  yes,  I know  what  they  are/'  said  Paul.  “I 
don’t  mean  that,  papa.  I mean  what’s  money  after  all.’' 

Heaven  and  Earth;  how  old  his  face  was  as  he  turned 
it  up  again  towards  his  father’s  ! 

“ What  is  money  after  all  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey,  back- 
ing his  chair  a little,  that  he  might  the  better  gaze  in 
sheer  amazement  at  the  presumptuous  atom  that  pro- 
pounded such  an  inquiry. 

“ I mean,  papa,  what  can  it  do  ! ” returned  Paul, 
folding  his  arms  (they  were  hardly  long  enough  to  fold), 
and  looking  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him,  and  at  the  fire, 
and  up  at  him  again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former  place, 
and  patted  him  on  the  head.  “You’ll  know  better  by 
and-by,  my  man,”  he  said.  “Money,  Paul,  can  do  any- 
thing. ” He  took  hold  of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  it 
softly  against  one  of  his  own,  as  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  he  could  ; and 
rubbing  it  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  as 
if  his  wit  were  in  the  palm,  and  he  were  sharpening  it 
— and  looking  at  the  fire  again,  as  though  the  fire  had 
been  his  adviser  and  prompter — repeated,  after  a short 
pause  : 

“ Anything,  papa  ? ” 

“Yes.  Anything — almost,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Anything  means  everything,  don’t  it,  papa  ? ” asked 
his  son  : not  observing,  or  possibly  not  understanding, 
the  qualification. 

“ft  includes  it ; yes,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Why  didn’t  money  save  me  my  mama  ? ” returned 
the  child.  “ It  isn’t  cruel,  is  it  ? ” 

“Cruel!”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neckcloth, 


42$ 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  “No.  A good  thing 
can’t  be  cruel.” 

“ If  it’s  a good  thing,  and  can  do  anything,”  said  the 
little  fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  fire, 

I wonder  why  it  didn’t  save  me  my  mama.”  " 

He  didn’t  ask  the  question  of  his  father  this  time. 
Perhaps  he  had  seen,  with  a child’s  quickness,  that  it 
had  already  made  his  father  uncomfortable.  But  he  re- 
peated the  thought  aloud,  as  if  it  were  quite  an  old  one 
to  him,  and  had  troubled  him  very  much  ; and  sat  with 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  still  cogitating  and  look- 
ing for  an  explanation  in  the  fire. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  recovered  from  his  surprise,  noi 
to  say  his  alarm  (for  it  was  the  very  first  occasion  oi; 
which  the  child  had  ever  broached  the  subject  of  lii< 
mother  to  him,  though  he  had  had  him  sitting  by  his 
side,  in  this  same  manner,  evening  after  evening),  ex 
pounded  to  him  how  that  money,  though  a very  potent 
spirit,  never  to  be  disparaged  on  any  account  whatever, 
would  not  keep  people  alive  whose  time  was  come  to  die, 
and  how  that  we  must  all  die,  unfortunately,  even  in  the? 
city,  though  we  were  never  so  rich.  But  how  that 
money  caused  us  to  be  honoured,  feared,  respected, 
courted,  and  admired,  and  made  us  powerful  and 
glorious  in  the  eyes  of  all  men  ; and  how  that  it  could, 
very  often,  even  keep  off  death,  for  a long  time  togeth, 
er.  How,  for  example,  it  had  secured  to  his  mama  the 
services  of  Mr.  Pilkins,  by  which  he,  Paul,  had  often 
profited  himself  ; likewise  of  the  great  Doctor  Parkei 
Peps,  whom  he  had  never  known.  And  how  it  could  do 
all,  that  could  be  done.  This,  with  more  to  the  same 
purpose,  Mr  Dombey  instilled  into  the  mind  of  his  son, 
who  listened  attentively,  and  seemed  to  understand  the 
greater  part  of  what  was  said  to  him. 

“ It  can’t  make  me  strong  and  quite  well,  either  papa, 
can  it  ? ” asked  Paul,  after  a short  silence  ; rubbing  his 
tiny  hands. 

“ Why,  you  are  strong  and  quite  well,”  returned  Mr. 
Dombey.  “ Are  you  not?” 

Oh  ! the  age  of  the  face  that  was  turned  up  again, 
with  an  expression,  half  of  melancholy,  half  of  slyness, 
on  it  ! 

“You  are  as  strong  and  wrell  as  such  little  people 
usually  are  ? Eh  ? ” said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Florence  is  older  than  I am,  but  I am  not  as  strong 
and  well  as  Florence,  I know,”  returned  the  child  ; “but 
I believe  that  when  Florence  was  as  bttle  as  me,  she 
could  play  a great  deal  longer  at  a time  without  tiring 
herself.  I am  so  tired  sometimes,”  said  little  Paul, 
warming  his  hands,  and  looking  in  between  the  bars  of 
the  grate,  as  if  some  ghostly  puppet-show  were  perform- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


427 


mg  there,  f<  and  my  bones  ache  so  (Wickam  says  it’s 
my  bones),  that  I don’t  know  what  to  do.” 

Ay  ! But  that’s  at  night,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  draw- 
ing his  own  chair  closer  to  his  son’s,  and  laying  his  hand 
gently  on  his  back  ; “ little  people  should  be  tired  at 
night,  for  then  they  sleep  well.” 

“ Oh,  it’s  not  at  night,  papa,”  returned  the  child,  “it’s 
in  the  day  ; and  I lie  down  in  Florence’s  lap,  and  she 
sings  to  me.  At  night  I dream  about  such  cu-ri-ous 
things  1 ” 

And  he  went  on,  warming  his  hands  again,  and  think- 
ing about  them,  like  an  old  man  or  a young  goblin. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  so  astonished,  and  so  uncomfortable, 
and  so  perfectly  at  a loss  how  to  pursue  the  conversation, 
that  he  could  only  sit  looking  at  his  son  by  the  light  of 
the  fire,  with  his  hand  resting  on  his  back,  as  if  it  were 
detained  there  by  some  magnetic  attraction.  Once  he 
advanced  his  other  hand,  and  turned  the  contemplative 
face  towards  his  own  for  a moment.  But  it  sought  the 
fire  again  as  soon  as  he  released  it : and  remained,  ad- 
dressed towards  the  flickering  blaze,  until  the  nurse 
appeared,  to  summon  him  to  bed. 

“ I want  Florence  to  come  for  me,”  said  Paul. 

“Won’t  you  come  with  your  poor  Nurse  Wickam, 
Master  Paul?”  inquired  that  attendant,  with  great 
pathos. 

“No,  I won’t,”  replied  Paul,  composing  himself  in  his 
arm-chair  again,  like  the  master  of  the  house. 

Invoking  a blessing  upon  his  innocence,  Mrs.  Wickam 
withdrew,  and  presently  Florence  appeared  in  her  stead. 
The  child  immediately  started  up  with  sudden  readiness 
and  animation,  and  raised  towards  his  father  in  bidding 
him  good  night,  a countenance  so  much  brighter,  so 
much  younger,  and  so  much  more  child-like  altogether, 
that  Mr.  Dombey,  while  he  felt  greatly  reassured  by 
the  change,  was  quite  amazed  at  it. 

After  they  had  left  the  room  together,  he  thought  he 
heard  a soft  voice  singing  ; and  remembering  that  Paul 
had  said  his  sister  sung  to  him,  he  had  the  curiosity  to 
open  the  door  and  listen,  and  look  after  them.  She  was 
toiling  up  the  great,  wide,  vacant  staircase,  with  him  in 
her  arms  ; his  head  was  lying  on  her  shoulder,  one  of  his 
arms  thrown  negligently  round  her  neck.  So  they  went, 
toiling  up  ; she  singing  all  the  way,  and  Paul  sometimes 
crooning  out  a feeble  accompaniment.  Mr.  Dombey 
looked  after  them  until  they  reached  the  top  of  the 
staircase — not  without  halting  to  rest  by  the  way — and 
passed  out  of  his  sight  ; and  then  he  still  stood  gazing 
upwards,  until  the  dull  rays  of  the  moon,  glimmering 
in  a melancholy  manner  through  the  dim  skylight,  sent 
him  back  to  his  own  room. 


42 8‘ 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  convoked  in  council  at 
dinner  next  day  ; and  when  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mr. 
Dombey  opened  the  proceedings  by  requiring  to  be  in- 
formed, without  any  gloss  or  reservation,  whether  there 
was  anything  the  matter  with  Paul,  and  what  Mr. 
Pilkins  said  about  him. 

“For  the  child  is  hardly/'  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “as 
stout  as  I could  wish." 

“ With  your  usual  happy  discrimination,  my  dear 
Paul,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  “ you  have  hit  the  point  at 
once.  Our  darling  is  not  altogether  as  stout  as  we  could 
wish.  The  fact  is,  that  his  mind  is  too  much  for  him. 
His  soul  is  a great  deal  too  large  for  his  frame.  I am 
sure  the  way  in  which  that  dear  child  talks  ! " said  Mrs. 
Chick,  shaking  her  head  ; “ no  one  would  believe. 

His  expressions,  Lucretia,  only  yesterday  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  funerals  !— ” 

“ I am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  interrupting  her  test- 
ily, “ that  some  of  those  persons  up-stairs  suggest  im- 
proper subjects  to  the  child.  He  was  speaking  to  me  last 
night  about  his — about  his  bones,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  lay- 
ing an  irritated  stress  upon  the  word.  “ What  on  earth 
has  anybody  to  do  with  the — with  the — bones  of  my  son? 
He  is  not  a living  skeleton,  I suppose." 

“ Very  far  from  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  unspeakable 
expression. 

“ I hope  so,"  returned  her  brother.  “ Funerals  again  ! 
who  talks  to  the  child  of  funerals  ? We  are  not  under- 
takers, or  mutes,  or  grave-diggers,  I believe." 

“ Very  far  from  it,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  the 
same  profound  expression  as  before. 

“ Then  who  puts  such  things  into  his  head  ? " said  Mr. 
Dombey.  “ Really  I was  quite  dismayed  and  shocked 
last  night.  Who  put  such  things  into  his  head,  Louisa  ? " 

“My  dear  Paul,"' said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a moment’s  si- 
lence, “ it  is  of  no  use  inquiring.  I do  not  think,  I will 
tell  you  candidly,  that  Wickam  is  a person  of  very 
cheerful  spirits,  or  what  one  would  call  a — " 

“A  daughter  of  Momus,”  Miss  Tox  softly  suggested. 

“Exactly  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ; “but  she  is  exceeding- 
ly attentive  and  useful,  and  not  at  all  presumptuous  ; in- 
deed I never  saw  a more  biddable  woman.  If  the  dear 
child,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was 
summing  up  what  had  been  previously  quite  agreed  upon, 
instead  of  saying  it  all  for  the  first  time,  “is  a little 
weakened  by  that  last  attack,  and  is  not  in  quite  such 
vigorous  health  as  we  could  wish  ; and  if  he  has  some 
temporary  weakness  in  his  system,  and  does  occasionally 
seem  about  to  lose,  for  the  moment,  the  use  of  his — " 

Mrs.  Chick  was  afraid  to  say  limbs,  after  Mr.  Dombey’s 
recent  objection  to  bones,  and  therefore  waited  for  a sng* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


429 


gestion  from  Miss  Tox,  who,  true  to  her  office,  hazarded 
“ members.” 

‘ ‘ Members  ! ” repeated  Mr.  Dombey. 

* ‘ I think  .the  medical  gentleman  mentioned  legs  this 
morning,  my  dear  Louisa  ; did  he  not  ? ” said  Miss  Tox. 

“Why,  of  course  he  did,  my  love,”  retorted  Mrs. 
Chick,  mildly  reproachful.  “ How  can  you  ask  me  ? You 
heard  him.  I say,  if  our  dear  Paul  should  lose,  for  the 
moment,  the  use  of  his  legs,  these  are  casualties  common 
to  many  children  at  his  time  of  life,  and  not  to  be  pre- 
vented by  any  care  or  caution.  The  sooner  you  under- 
stand that,  Paul,  and  admit  that,  the  better.” 

“Surely  you  must  know,  Louisa,”  observed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, “ that  I don’t  question  your  natural  devotion  to,  and 
natural  regard  for,  the  future  head  of  my  house.  Mr. 
Pilkins  saw  Paul  this  morning,  I believe?”  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

“ Yes,  he  did,”  returned  his  sister.  “Miss  Tox  and 
myself  were  present.  Miss  Tox  and  myself  are  always 
present.  We  make  a point  of  it.  Mr.  Pilkins  has  seen 
him  for  some  days  past,  and  a very  clever  man  I believe 
him  to  be.  He  says  it  is  nothing  to  speak  of  ; which  I 
can  confirm,  if  that  is  any  consolation ; but  he  recom- 
mended, to-day,  sea-air.  Very  wisely,  Paul,  I feel  con- 
vinced.” 

“ Sea-air,”  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  his  sister. 

“ There  is  nothing  to  be  made  uneasy  by,  in  that,”  said 
Mrs.  Chick.  “ My  George  and  Frederick  were  both  or- 
dered sea-air,  when  they  were  about  his  age  ; and  I have 
been  ordered  it  myself  a great  many  times.  I quite  agree 
with  you,  Paul,  that  perhaps  topics  may  be  incautiously 
mentioned  up-stairs  before  him,  which  it  would  be  as  well 
for  his  little  mind  not  to  expatiate  upon  ; but,  I really 
don’t  see  how  that  is  to  be  helped  in  the  case  of  a child 
of  his  quickness.  If  he  were  a common  child,  there  would 
be  nothing  in  it.  I must  say  I think,  with  Miss  Tox,  that 
a short  absence  from  this  house,  the  air  of  Brighton,  and 
the  bodily  and  mental  training  of  so  judicious  a person 
as  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  instance — ” 

“ Who  is  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Louisa?”  asked  Mr.  Dombey  ; 
aghast  at  this  familiar  introduction  of  a name  he  had 
never  heard  before. 

“Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  Paul,” returned  his  sister,  “ is 
an  elderly  lady — Miss  Tox  knowTs  her  whole  history — 
who  has  for  some  time  devoted  all  the  energies  of  ’her 
mind,  with  the  greatest  success,  to  the  study  and  treat- 
ment of  infancy,  and  who  has  been  extremely  wTell  con- 
nected. Her  husband  broke  his  heart  in — how  did  you 
say  her  husband  broke  his  heart,  my  dear  ? I forget  the 
precise  circumstances. 99 

“ In  pumping  water  out  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,”  re- 
plied Miss  Tox. 


430 


WORKS  OF  CI3 ARLES  DICKENS. 


“Not  being  a Pumper  himself,  of  course/’  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  glancing  at  her  brother  ; and  it  really  did  seem 
necessary  to  offer  the  explanation,  for  Miss  Tox  had  spok 
en  of  him  as  if  he  had  died  at  the  handle  ; “ but  having 
invested  money  in  the  speculation,  which  failed.  I be- 
lieve that  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  management  of  children  is  quite 
astonishing.  I have  heard  it  commended  in  private  cir- 
cles ever  since  I was — dear  me — how  high  ! ” Mrs.  Chick’s 
eye  wandered  about  the  bookcase  near  the  bust  of  Mr, 
Pitt,  which  was  about  ten  feet  from  the  ground. 

“ Perhaps  I should  say  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  sir,” 
observed  Miss  Tox,  with  an  ingenuous  blush,  “ having 
been  so  pointedly  referred  to,  that  the  encomium  which 
has  been  passed  upon  her  by  your  sweet  sister  is  well 
merited.  Many  ladies  and  gentlemen,  now  grown  up 
to  be  interesting  members  of  society,  have  been  indebted 
to  her  care.  The  humble  individual  who  addresses  you 
was  once  under  her  charge.  I believe  juvenile  nobility 
itself  is  no  stranger  to  her  establishment/’ 

“ Do  I understand  that  this  respectable  matron  keeps 
an  establishment,  Miss  Tox?”  inquired  Mr.  Dombey, 
condescendingly. 

“ Why,  I really  don’t  know,”  rejoined  that  lady, 
“ whether  I am  justified  in  calling  it  so.  It  is  not  a Pre- 
paratory School  by  any  means.  Should  I express  my 
meaning,”  said  Miss  Tox,  with  peculiar  sweetness,  “if  I 
designated  it  an  infantine  Boarding-House  of  a very 
select  description  ? ” 

“On  an  exceedingly  limited  and  particular  scale,” 
suggested  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a glance  at  her  brother. 

“Oh  ! Exclusion  itself  ! ” said  Miss  Tox. 

There  was  something  in  this.  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  husband 
having  broken  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines  was  good. 
It  had  a rich  sound.  Besides,  Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a 
state  almost  amounting  to  consternation  at  the  idea  of 
Paul  remaining  where  he  was  one  hour  after  his  removal 
had  been  recommended  by  the  medical  practitioner.  It 
was  a stoppage  and  delay  upon  the  road  the  child  must 
traverse,  slowly  at  the  best,  before  the  goal  was  reached. 
Their  recommendation  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  great  weight 
with  him  ; for  he  knew  that  they  were  jealous  of  any  in- 
terference with  their  charge,  and  he  never  for  a moment 
took  it  into  account  that  they  might  be  solicitous  to  di- 
vide a responsibility,  of  which  he  had,  as  shown  just 
now,  his  own  established  views.  Broke  his  heart  of  the 
Peruvian  mines,  mused  Mr.  Dombey.  Well,  a very  re- 
spectable way  of  doing  it. 

“Supposing  we  should  decide,  on  to-morrow’s  in- 
quiries, to  send  Paul  down  to  Brighton  to  this  lady,  who 
would  go  with  him?  ” inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  after  some 
reflection. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


481 


“ I don’t  think  you  could  send  the  child  anywhere  at 
present  without  Florence,  my  dear  Paul,”  returned  his 
sister  hesitating.  “ It’s  quite  an  infatuation  with  him. 
He’s  very  young,  you  know,  and  has  his  fancies.” 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  his  head  away,  and  going  slowly 
to  the  bookcase,  and  unlocking  it,  brought  back  a book 
to  read. 

“Anybody  else,  Louisa?”  he  said,  without  looking 
up,  and  turning  over  the  leaves. 

“ Wickam,  of  course.  Wickam  would  be  quite  suffi- 
cient, I should  say,”  returned  his  sister.  “ Paul  being 
in  such  hands  as  Mrs.  Pipchin’s,  you  could  hardly  send 
anybody  who  would  be  a further  check  upon  her.  You 
would  go  down  yourself  once  a- week  at  least,  of  course.” 

“ Of  course/''  said  Mr.  Dombey  ; and  sat  looking  at  one 
page  for  an  hour  afterwards,  without  reading  a word. 

This  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a marvellous  ill- 
favoured,  ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a stooping  figure, 
with  a mottled  face,  like  bad  marble,  a hook  nose,  and  a 
hard  gray  eye,  that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  ham- 
mered at  on  an  anvil  without  sustaining  any  injury. 
Forty  years  at  least  had  elapsed  since  the  Peruvian 
mines  had  been  the  death  of  Mr.  Pipchin  ; but  his  relict 
still  wore  black  bombazeen,  of  such  a lustreless,  deep, 
dead,  sombre  shade,  that  gas  itself  couldn’t  light  her  up 
after  dark,  and  her  presence  was  a quencher  to  any  num- 
ber of  candles.  She  was  generally  spoken  of  as  “a 
great  manager  ” of  children  ; and  the  secret  of  her  mam 
agement,  was,  to  give  them  everything  that  they  didn’t 
like,  and  nothing  that  they  did — which  was  found  to 
sweeten  their  dispositions  very  much.  She  was  such  a 
bitter  old  lady,  that  one  was  tempted  to  believe  there 
had  been  some  mistake  in  the  application  of  the  Peru- 
vian machinery,  and  that  all  her  waters  of  gladness  and 
milk  of  human  kindness  had  been  pumped  out  dry,  in- 
stead of  the  mines. 

The  castle  of  this  ogress  and  child-queller  was  in  a 
steep  by-street  at  Brighton  ; where  the  soil  was  more 
than  usually  chalky,  flinty,  and  sterile,  and  the  houses 
were  more  than  usually  brittle  and  thin  ; where  the 
small  front-gardens  had  the  unaccountable  property  of 
producing  nothing  but  marigolds,  whatever  was  sown  in 
them  ; and  where  snails  were  constantly  discovered  hold- 
ing on  to  the  street  doors,  and  other  public  places  they 
were  not  expected  to  ornament,  with  the  tenacity  of  cup- 
ping-glasses. In  the  winter  time  the  air  couldn’t  be  got 
out  of  the  castle,  and  in  the  summer  time  the  air  couldn’t 
be  got  in.  There  was  such  a continual  reverberation  of 
wind  in  it,  that  it  sounded  like  a great  shell,  which  the 
inhabitants  were  obliged  to  hold  to  their  ears  night  and 
day,  whether  they  liked  it  or  no,  It  was  not,  naturally, 


432 


WORKS  OF  CHARTS  DICKENS. 


a fresh -smelling  house  ; and  in  the  window  of  the  front 
parlour,  which  was  never  opened,  Mrs.  Pipchin  kept  a 
collection  of  plants  in  pots,  which  imparted  an  earthy 
flavour  of  -their  own  to  the  establishment.  However 
choice  examples  of  their  kind,  too,  these  plants  were  of 
a kind  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  embowrerment  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  There  were  half-a-dozen  specimens  of  the  cac- 
tus, writhing  round  bits  of  lath,  like  hairy  serpents  ; an- 
other specimen  shooting  out  broad  claws,  like  a green 
lobster  ; several  creeping  vegetables,  possessed  of  sticky 
and  adhesive  leaves  ; and  one  uncomfortable  flower-pot 
hanging  to  the  ceiling,  which  appeared  to  have  boiled 
over,  and  tickling  people  underneath  with  its  long  green 
ends,  reminded  them  of  spiders — in  which  Mrs.  Pipchin’s 
dwelling  was  uncommonly  prolific,  though  perhaps  it 
challenged  competition  still  more  proudly,  in  the  season, 
in  point  of  earwigs. 

Mrs.  Pipchin’s  scale  of  charges  being  high,  however, 
to  all  who  could  afford  to  pay,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  very 
seldom  sweetening  the  equable  acidity  of  her  nature  in 
favour  of  anybody,  she  was  held  to  be  an  old  lady  of 
remarkable  firmness,  who  was  quite  scientific  in  her 
knowledge  of  the  childish  character.  On  this  reputa- 
tion, and  on  the  broken  heart  of  Mr.  Pipchin,  she  had 
contrived,  taking  one  year  with  another,  to  eke  out  a 
tolerably  sufficient  living  since  her  husband’s  demise. 
Within  three  days  after  Mrs.  Chick’s  first  allusion  tc 
her,  this  excellent  old  lady  had  the  satisfaction  of  antic- 
ipating  a handsome  addition  to  her  current  receipts,  from 
the  pocket  of  Mr.  Dombey  ; and  of  receiving  Florence 
and  her  little  brother  Paul,  as  inmates  of  the  castle. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox,  who  had  brought  them  down 
on  the  previous  night  (which  they  all  passed  at  an  hotel), 
had  just  driven  away  from  the  door,  on  fheii  journey 
home  again  ; and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  her  bacfc:  to  the 
fire,  stood,  reviewing  the  new-comers,  like  an  old  soldier. 
Mrs.  Pipchin’s  middle-aged  niece,  her  good-natured  and 
devoted  slave,  but  possessing  a gaunt  and  iron-bound 
aspect,  and  much  afflicted  with  boils  on  her  nose,  was 
divesting  Master  Bitherstone  of  the  clean  collar  he  had 
worn  on  parade.  Miss  Pankey,  the  only  other  little 
boai  ier  at  present,  had  that  moment  been  walked  off  to 
the  castle  dungeon  (an  empty  apartment  at  the  back, 
devoted  to  correctional  purposes),  for  having  sniffed 
thrice,  in  the  presence  of  visitors. 

Well,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  Paul,  “ how  do  you 
think  you  shall  like  me  ? ” 

“ I don’t  think  I shall  like  you  at  all,”  replied  Paul, 
<f  I want  to  go  away.  This  isn’t  my  house.” 

“ No.  It’s  mine,”  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

te  It’s  a very  nasty  one,”  said  Paul. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


433 


“There’s  a worse  place  In  it  than  this,  though,”  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  “where  we  shut  up  our  bad  boys.” 

“ Has  lie  evei*  been  in  it  V9  asked  Paul  : pointing  out 
Master  Bitherstone. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  nodded  assent  ; and  Paul  had  enough  to 
do,  for  the  rest  of  that  day,  in  surveying  Master  Bither- 
stone from  head  to  foot,  and  watching  all  the  workings 
of  his  countenance,  with  the  interest  attaching  to  a boy 
of  mysterious  and  terrible  experiences. 

At  one  o’clock  there  was  a dinner,  chiefly  of  the  farin- 
aceous and  vegetable  kind,  when  Miss  Pankey,  (a  mild 
little  blue-eved  morsel  of  a child,  who  was  shampoo’d 
every  morning  and  seemed  in  danger  of  being  rubbed 
away,  altogether)  was  led  in  from  captivity  by  the 
ogress  herself,  and  instructed  that  nobody  who  sniffed 
before  visitors  ever  went  to  Heaven.  When  this  great 
truth  had  been  thoroughly  impressed  upon  her,  she  was 
regaled  with  rice  ; and  subsequently  repeated  the  form 
of  grace  established  in  the  castle,  in  which  there  was  a 
special  clause,  thanking  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  a good  dinner. 
Mrs.  Pipchin’s  niece,  Berintliia,  took 'cold  pork.  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  whose  constitution  required  warm  nourishment, 
made  a special  repast  of  mutton-chops,  which  were 
brought  in  hot  and  hot,  between  two  plates,  and  smelt 
very  nice. 

As  it  rained  after  dinner,  and  they  couldn’t  go  out 
walking  on  the  beach,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  constitution 
required  rest  after  chops,  they  went  away  with  Berry 
(otherwise  Berinthia)  to  the  dungeon  ; an  empty  room 
looking  out  upon  a chalk  wall  and  water-butt,  and  made 
ghastly  by  a ragged  fire-place  without  any  stove  in  it. 
Enlivened  by  company,  however,  this  was  the  best  place 
after  all  ; for  Berry  played  with  them  there,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  a game  at  romps  as  much  as  they  did  ; until 
Mrs.  Pipchin  knocking  angrily  at  the  wall,  like  the  Cock- 
lane  ghost  revived,  they  left  off,  and  Berry  told  them 
stories  in  a whisper  until  twilight. 

For  tea  there  was  plenty  of  milk  and  water,  and  bread 
and  butter,  with  a little  black  tea-pot  for  Mrs.  Pipchin 
and  Berry,  and  buttered  toast  unlimited  for  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, which  was  brought  in,  hot  and  hot,  like  the  chops. 
Though  Mrs.  Pipchin  got  very  greasy,  outside,  over  this 
dish,  it  didn’t  seem  to  lubricate  her,  internally,  at  all  ; 
for  she  was  as  fierce  as  ever,  and  the  hard  gray  eye  knew 
no  softening. 

After  tea,  Berry  brought  out  a little  work-box,  with 
the  Royal  Pavilion  on  the  lid,  and  fell  to  working  busily  ; 
while  Mrs.  Pipchin,  having  put  on  her  spectacles  and 
opened  a great  volume  bound  in  green  baize,  began  to 
nod.  And  whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  caught  herself  fall- 
ing forward  into  the  fire,  and  woke  up,  she  filliped  Mas- 
ter Bitherstone  on  the  nose  for  nodding  too, 

-S  Vol. 11 


434 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


At  last  it  was  the  children's  bedtime,  and  after  prayers 
they  went  to  bed.  As  little  Miss  Pankey  was  afraid  of 
.sleeping  alone  in  the  dark,  Mrs.  Pipchin  always  made  a 
point  of  driving  her  up  stairs  herself,  like  a sheep  ; and 
it  was  cheerful  to  hear  Miss  Pankey  moaning  long  after- 
wards, in  the  least  eligible  chamber,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin 
now  and  then  going  in  to  shake  her.  At  about  half -past 
nine  o'clock  the  odour  of  a warm  sweet-bread  (Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  constitution  wouldn’t  go  to  sleep  without  sweet- 
bread) diversified  the  prevailing  fragrance  of  the  house, 
which  Mrs.  Wickam  said  was  “a  smell  of  building  ;* 
and  slumber  fell  upon  the  castle  shortly  after. 

The  breakfast  next  morning  was  like  the  tea  over 
night,  except  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  her  roll  instead  of 
toast,  and  seemed  a little  more  irate  when  it  was  over. 
Master  Bitherstone  read  aloud  to  the  rest  a pedigree  from 
Genesis  (judiciously  selected  by  Mrs.  Pipchin),  getting 
over  the  names  with  the  ease  and  clearness  of  a person 
tumbling  up  the  treadmill.  That  done,  Miss  Pankey 
was  borne  away  to  be  shampoo’d  ; and  Master  Bither- 
stone to  have  something  else  done  to  him  with  salt  water, 
from  which  he  always  returned  very  blue  and  dejected. 
Paul  and  Florence  went  out  in  the  meantime  on  the  beach 
with  Wickam — who  was  constantly  in  tears — and  at 
about  noon  Mrs.  Pipchin  presided  over  some  Early  Read- 
ings. It  being  a part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  system  not 
to  encourage  a child's  mind  to  develope  and  expand 
itself  like  a young  flower,  but  to  open  it  by  force  like  an 
oyster,  the  moral  of  these  lessons  was  usually  of  a violent 
and  stunning  character  : the  hero — a naughty  boy — sel- 
dom, in  the  mildest  catastrophe,  being  finished  off  by 
anything  less  than  a lion,  or  a bear. 

Such  was  life  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's.  On  Saturday  Mr. 
Dombey  came  down  ; and  Florence  and  Paul  would  go 
to  his  hotel,  and  have  tea.  They  passed  the  whole  of 
Sunday  with  him,  and  generally  rode  out  before  dinner  ; 
and  on  these  occasions  Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  grow,  like 
Falstaff's  assailants,  and  instead  of  being  one  man  in 
buckram,  to  become  a dozen.  Sunday  evening  was  the 
most  melancholy  evening  in  the  week  ; for  Mrs.  Pipchin 
always  made  a point  of  being  particularly  cross  on 
Sunday  nights.  Miss  Pankey  was  generally  brought 
back  from  an  aunt's  at  Rottingdean,  in  deep  distress  ; 
and  Master  Bitherstone,  whose  relatives  were  all  in 
India,  and  who  w^as  required  to  sit,  between  the  services, 
in  an  erect  position  with  his  head  against  the  parlour 
wall  neither  moving  hand  nor  foot,  suffered  so  acutely 
in  his  young  spirits  that  he  once  asked  Florence;  on  a 
Sunday  night,  if  she  could  give  him  any  idea  of  the  way 
back  to  Bengal. 

But  it  was  generally  said  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


435 


woman  of  system  wifli  children  ; and  no  doubt  she  was. 
Certainly  the  wild  ones  went  home  tame  enough,  after 
sojourning  for  a few  months  beneath  her  hospitable  roof. 
It  was  generally  said,  too,  that  it  was  highly  creditable 
of  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  have  devoted  herself  to  this  way  of 
life,  and  to  have  made  such  a sacrifice  of  her  feelings, 
and  such  a resolute  stand  against  her  troubles,  when  Mr. 
Pipchin  broke  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

At  this  exemplary  old  lady,  Paul  would  sit  staring  in 
his  little  arm-chair,  by  the  fire,  for  any  length  of  time. 
He  never  seemed  to  know  what  weariness  was,  when  he 
was  looking  fixedly  at  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  was  not  fond 
of  her  ; he  was  not  afraid  of  her  ; but  in  those  old  old 
moods  of  his,  she  seemed  to  have  a grotesque  attraction 
for  him.  There  he  would  sit,  looking  at  her,  and  warm- 
ing his  hands,  and  looking  at  her,  until  he  sometimes 
quite  confounded  Mrs.  Pipdiin, ogress  as  she  was.  Once 
she  asked  him,  when  they  were  alone,  what  he  was 
thinking  about. 

“ You,”  said  Paul,  without  the  least  reserve. 

“ And  what  are  you  thinking  about  me  ? ” asked  Mrs. 
Pipchin. 

“ Pm  thinking  how  old  you  must  be,”  said  Paul. 

“ You  mustn’t  say  such  things  as  that,  young  gentle- 
man,” returned  the  dame.  “ That’ll  never  do.” 

“ Why  not?”  asked  Paul. 

“ Because  it’s  not  polite,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  snap- 
pishly. 

“ Not  polite?”  said  Paul. 

“ No.” 

“ It’s  not  polite,”  said  Paul,  innocently,  “to  eat  all 
the  mutton-chops  and  toast,  Wickam  says.” 

“ Wickam,”  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  colouring,  “ is  a 
wicked,  impudent,  bold-faced  hussy.  ” 

“ What’s  that?”  inquired  Paul. 

“ Never  you  mind,  sir,”  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin.  “ Re- 
member the  story  of  the  little  boy  that  was  gored  to 
death  by  a mad  bull  for  asking  questions.” 

“ If  the  bull  was  mad,”  said  Paul,  “how  did  he  know 
that  the  boy  had  asked  questions  ? Nobody  can  go  and 
whisper  secrets  to  a mad  bull.  I don’t  believe  that  story.” 

“You  don’t  believe  it,  sir?”  repeated  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
©mazed. 

“ No,”  said  Paul. 

“ Not  if  it  should  happen  to  have  been  a tame  bull, 
you  little  infidel  ?”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

As  Paul  had  not  considered  the  subject  in  that  light, 
and  had  founded  his  conclusions  on  the  alleged  lunacy 
of  the  bull,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  put  down  for  the 
present.  But  he  sat  turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  with  sucb 
an  obvious  intention  of  fixing  Mrs.  Pipchin  presently. 


436 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


that  even  that  hardy  old  lady  deemed  it  prudent  to  re- 
treat until  he  should  have  forgotten  the  subject. 

From  that  time,  Mrs.  Pipchin  appeared  to  have  some- 
thing of  the  same  odd  kind  of  attraction  towards  Paul, 
as  Paul  had  towards  her.  She  would  make  him  move 
his  chair  to  her  side  of  the  fire,  instead  of  sitting  oppo- 
site ; and  there  he  would  remain  in  a nook  between 
Mrs.  Pipchin  and  the  fender,  with  all  the  light  of  his 
little  face  absorbed  into  the  black  bombazeen  drapery, 
studying  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  her  countenance,  and 
peering  at  the  hard  gray  eye  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  was 
sometimes  fain  to  shut  it,  on  pretence  of  dozing.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  had  an  old  black  cat,  who  generally  lay  coiled 
upon  the  centre  foot  of  the  fender,  purring  egotistically, 
and  winking  at  the  fire  until  the  contracted  pupils  of  his 
eyes  were  like  two  notes  of  admiration.  The  good  old 
lady  might  have  been — not  to  record  it  disrespectfully 
— a witch,  and  Paul  and  the  cat  her  two  familiars,  as 
they  all  sat  by  the  fire  together.  It  would  have  been 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  appearance  of  the  party  if  they 
had  all  sprung  up  the  chimney  in  a high  wind  one  night, 
and  never  been  heard  of  any  more. 

This,  however,  never  came  to  pass.  The  cat,  and 
Paul,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  were  constantly  to  be  found  in 
their  usual  places  after  dark  ; and  Paul,  eschewing  the 
championship  of  Master  Bitherstone,  wrent  on  studying 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  the  cat,  and  the  fire,  night  after  night, 
as  if  they  were  a book  of  necromancy,  in  three  volumes. 

Mrs.  Wickam  put  her  own  construction  on  Paul’s  ec- 
centricities ; and  being  confirmed  in  her  low  spirits  by  a 
perplexed  view  of  chimneys  from  the  room  where  she 
was  accustomed  to  sit,  and  by  the  noise  of  the  wind, 
and  by  the  general  dulness  (gashliness  was  Mrs.  Wick- 
am’s  strong  expression)  of  her  present  life,  deduced 
the  most  dismal  reflections  from  the  foregoing  prem- 
ises. It  was  a part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  policy  tq  prevent 
her  own  * 4 young  hussy  ” — that  was  Mrs.  Pipcliin’s  gene- 
ric name  for  a female  servant — from  communicating  with 
Mrs.  Wickam  : to  which  end  she  devoted  much  of  her 
time  to  concealing  herself  behind  doors,  and  springing 
out  on  that  devoted  maiden,  whenever  she  made  an  ap- 
proach towards  Mrs.  Wickam’s  apartment.  But  Berry 
was  free  to  hold  what  converse  she  could  in  that  quarter 
consistently  with  the  discharge  of  the  multifarious  duties 
at  which  she  toiled  incessantly  from  morning  to  night  ; 
and  to  Berry  Mrs.  Wickam  unburdened  her  mind. 

44  What  a pretty  fellow  he  is  when  lie’s  asleep  ! ” 
said  Berry,  stopping  to  look  at  Paul  in  bed,  one  night 
when  she  took  up  Mrs.  Wickam’s  supper. 

44  Ah  ! ” sighed  Mrs.  Wickam.  44  He  need  be.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


487 


« Why,  he’s  not  ugly  when  he’s  awake/'  observed 
Berry. 

f ‘ No,  ma’am.  Oh,  no.  No  more  was  my  uncle’s  Betsey 
Jane,”  said  Mrs.  Wickam. 

Berry  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  trace  the  connex- 
ion of  ideas  between  Paul  Dombey  and  Mrs.  Wickam’s 
uncle’s  Betsey  Jane. 

“My  uncle’s  wife,”  Mrs.  Wickam  went  on  to  say, 
“died  just  like  his  mama.  My  uncle’s  child  took  on 
just  as  Master  Paul  do.  My  uncle’s  child  made  people’s 
blood  run  cold,  sometimes,  she  did  ! ” 

“ How  ? ” asked  Berry. 

“ I wouldn’t  have  sat  up  all  night  alone  with  Betsey 
Jane  ! ” said  Mrs.  Wickam,  “ not  if  you’d  have  put 
Wickam  into  business  next  morning  for  himself.  I 
couldn’t  have  done  it.  Miss  Berry.” 

Miss  Berry  naturally  asked,  why  not  ? But  Mrs. 
Wickam,  agreeably  to  the  usage  of  some  ladies  in  her 
condition,  pursued  her  own  branch  of  the  subject  with- 
out any  compunction. 

“ Betsey  Jane,”  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  “ was  as  sweet  a 
child  as  I could  wish  to  see.  I couldn’t  wish  to  see  a 
sweeter.  Everything  that  a child  could  have  in  the  way 
of  illnesses,  Betsey  Jane  had  come  through.  The  cramps 
was  as  common  to  her,”  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  “ as  biles  is 
to  yourself,  Miss  Berry.”  Miss  Berry  involuntarily 
wrinkled  her  nose. 

“But  Betsey  Jane,”  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  lowering  her 
voice,  and  looking  round  the  room,  and  towards  Paul  in 
bed,  “had  been  minded,  in  her  cradle,  by  her  departed 
mother.  I couldn’t  say  how,  nor  I couldn’t  say  when, 
nor  I couldn’t  say  whether  the  dear  child  knew  it  or 
not,  but  Betsey  Jane  had  been  watched  by  her  mother, 
Miss  Berry  ! You  may  say  nonsense  ! I an’t  offended* 
miss.  I hope  you  may  be  able  to  think  in  your  own 
conscience  that  it  is  nonsense;  you’ll  find  your  spirits  all 
the  better  for  it  in  this — you’ll  excuse  my  being  so  free — 
in  this  burying  ground  of  a place  ; which  is  wearing 
of  me  down.  Master  Paul’s  a little  restless  in  his  sleep. 
Pat  his  back,  if  you  please.” 

“ Of  course  you  think,”  said  Berry,  gently  doing  what 
she  was  asked,  “ that  he  has  been  nursed  by  his  mother, 
too  ? ” 

“Betsey  Jane,”  returned  Mrs.  Wickam,  in  her  most 
solemn  tones,  “ was  put  upon  as  that  child  has  been  put 
upon,  and  changed  as  that  child  has  changed.  I have 
seen  her  sit,  often  and  often,  think,  think,  thinking,  like 
him.  I have  seen  her  look,  often  and  often,  old,  old, 
old,  like  him.  I have  heard  her,  many  a time,  talk  just 
like  him.  I consider  that  child  and  Betsey  Jane  on  the 
same  footing  entirely,  Miss  Berry.” 


488 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Is  your  uncle’s  child  alive  ? " asked  Berry. 

“Yes,  miss,  she  is  alive,”  returned  Mrs.  Wickam, 
with  an  air  of  triumph,  for  it  was  evident  Miss  Berry 
expected  the  reverse  ; “ and  is  married  to  a silver- chaser. 
Oh  yes,  miss.  She  is  alive/’  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  laying 
strong  stress  on  her  nominative  case. 

It  being  clear  that  somebody  was  dead,  Mrs.  Pipchin’s 
niece  inquired  who  it  was. 

“ I wouldn’t  wish  to  make  you  uneasy,”  returned  Mrs. 
Wickam,  pursuing  her  supper.  “ Don’t  ask  me.” 

This  was  the  surest  way  of  being  asked  again.  Miss 
Berry  repeated  her  question,  therefore  ; and  after  some 
resistance,  and  reluctance,  Mrs.  Wickam  laid  down  her 
knife,  and  again  glancing  round  the  room  and  at  Paul 
In  bed,  replied  : 

“ She  took  fancies  to  people  ; whimsical  fancies,  some 
of  them  ; others,  affections  that  one  might  expect  to  see 
— only  stronger  than  common.  They  all  died.” 

This  was  so  very  unexpected  and  awful  to  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin’s  niece,  that  she  sat  upright  on  the  hard  edge  of 
the  bedstead,  breathing  short,  and  surveying  her  infor- 
mant with  looks  of  undisguised  alarm. 

Mrs.  Wickam  shook  her  left  forefinger  stealthily  to* 
wards  the  bed  where  Florence  lay  ; then  turned  it  upside 
down,  and  made  several  emphatic  points  at  the  floor  ; 
immediately  below  which  was  the  parlour  in  which  Mrs. 
Pipchin  habitually  consumed  the  toast. 

“ Remember  my  words.  Miss  Berry,”  said  Mrs.  Wick- 
am, “ and  be  thankful  that  Master  Paul  is  not  too  fond  of 
you.  I am,  that  he’s  not  too  fond  of  me,  I assure  you  ; 
though  there  isn’t  much  to  live  for — you’ll  excuse  my 
being  so  free — in  this  jail  of  a house  ! ” 

Miss  Berry’s  emotion  might  have  led  to  her  patting 
Paul  too  hard  on  the  back,  or  might  have  produced  a 
cessation  of  that  soothing  monotony,  but  he  turned  in 
his  bed  just  now,  and,  presently  awaking,  sat  up  in  it 
with  his  hair  hot  and  wet  from  the  effects  of  some  child- 
ish dream,  and  asked  for  Florence. 

She  was  out  of  her  own  bed  at  the  first  sound  of  his 
Voice  ; and  bending  over  his  pillow  immediately,  sang 
him  to  sleep  again.  Mrs.  Wickam  shaking  her  headt 
and  letting  fall  several  tears,  pointed  out  the  little  group 
to  Berry,  and  turned  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling. 

“ Good  night,  miss  ! ” said  Wickam,  softly.  “ Good 
night ! Your  aunt  is  an  old  lady.  Miss  Berry,  and  it’s 
what  you  must  have  looked  for,  often.” 

This  consolatory  farewell,  Mrs.  Wickam  accompanied 
with  a look  of  heartfelt  anguish  ; and  being  left  alone 
with  the  two  children  again,  and  becoming  conscious 
that  the  wind  was  blowing  mournfully,  she  indulged  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


439 


melancholy — that  cheapest  and  most  accessible  of  luxu- 
ries— until  she  was  overpowered  by  slumber. 

Although  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  did  not  expect  to 
find  that  exemplary  dragon  prostrate  on  the  hearth-rug 
■when  she  went  down-stairs,  she  was  relieved  to  find  her 
tmusually  fractious  and  severe,  and  with  every  present 
appearance  of  intending  to  live  a long  time  to  be  a com- 
fort to  all  who  knew  her.  Nor  had  she  any  symptoms 
of  declining,  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week,  when 
the  constitutional  viands  still  continued  to  disappear  in 
regular  succession,  notwithstanding  that  Paul  studied 
her  as  attentively  as  ever,  and  occupied  his  usual  seat 
between  the  black  skirts  and  the  fender,  with  unwaver- 
ing constancy. 

But  as  Paul  himself  was  no  stronger  at  the  expiration 
of  that  time  than  he  had  been  on  his  first  arrival,  though 
he  looked  much  healthier  in  the  face,  a little  carriage 
was  got  for  him,  in  which  he  could  lie  at  his  ease,  with 
an  alphabet  and  other  elementary  works  of  reference, 
and  be  wheeled  down  to  the  seaside.  Consistent  in  his 
odd  tastes,  the  child  set  aside  a ruddy-faced  lad  who 
was  proposed  as  the  drawer  of  this  carriage,  and  selected, 
instead,  his  grandfather — a weazen,  old,  crab- faced 
man,  in  a suit  of  battered  oilskin,  who  had  got  tough 
and  stringy  from  long  pickling  in  salt  water,  and  who 
smelt  like  a weedy  sea-beach  when  the  tide  is  out. 

With  this  notable  attendant  to  pull  him  along,  and 
Florence  always  walking  by  his  side,  and  the  despondent 
Wickam  bringing  up  the  rear,  he  went  down  to  the  mar- 
gin of  the  ocean  every  day  ; and  there  he  would  sit  or  lie 
in  his  carriage  for  hours  together  : never  so  distressed  as 
by  the  company  of  children — Florence  alone  excepted, 
always. 

“Go  away,  if  you  please,”  he  would  say  to  any  child 
who  came  to  bear  him  company.  “ Thank  you,  but  I 
don't  want  you.  ” 

Some  small  voice,  near  his  ear,  would  ask  him  how  he 
was,  perhaps. 

£‘  I am  very  well,  I thank  you,”  he  would  answer. 
“ But  you  had  better  go  and  play,  if  you  please.” 

Then  he  would  turn  his  head,  and  watch  the  child 
away,  and  say  to  Florence,  uWe  don't  want  any  others, 
do  we?  Kiss  me,  Floy.” 

He  had  even  a dislike,  at  such  times,  to  the  company 
of  Wickam,  and  was  well  pleased  when  she  strolled 
away,  as  she  generally  did,  to  pick  up  shells  and  ac- 
quaintances. His  favourite  spot  was  quite  a lonely  one, 
far  away  from  most  loungers  ; and  with  Florence  sitting 
by  his  side  at  work,  or  reading  to  him,  or  talking  to  him, 
and  the  wind  blowing  on  his  face,  and  the  water  ’em* 


440 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in g up  among  the  wheels  of  his  bed,  he  wanted  nothing" 
more. 

“Floy,”  he  said  one  day,  “where’s  India,  where 
that  boy’s  friends  live?” 

“ (Jh,  it’s  a long,  long  distance  off,”  said  Florence, 
raising  her  eyes  from  her  work. 

“ Weeks  off?”  asked  Paul. 

“ Yes,  dear.  Many  week’s  journey,  night  and  day.” 

“ If  you  were  in  India,  Floy,”  said  Paul,  after  being 
silent  for  a minute,  “ I should — what  is  that  mama  did  ? 
I forget.” 

“ Loved  me  ! ” answered  Florence. 

“ No,  no.  Don’t  I love  you  now,  Floy?  What  is  it? 
—Died.  If  you  were  in  India,  I should  die,  Floy.” 

She  hurriedly  put  her  work  aside,  and  laid  her  head 
down  on  his  pillow,  caressing  him.  And  so  would 
she,  she  said,  if  he  were  there.  He  would  be  better 
soon. 

“ Oh  ! I am  a great  deal  better  now  !”  he  answered. 
“ I don’t  mean  that.  I mean  that  I should  die  of  being 
so  sorry  and  so  lonely,  Floy  ! ” 

Another  time,  in  the  same  place,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
slept  quietly  for  a long  time.  Awaking  suddenly,  he 
listened,  started  up,  and  sat  listening. 

Florence  asked  him  what  he  thought  he  heard. 

“ I want  to  know  what  it  says,”  he  answered,  looking 
steadily  in  her  face.  “ The  sea,  Floy,  what  is  it  that  it 
keeps  on  saying  ? ” 

She  told  him  that  it  was  only  the  noise  of  the  rolling 
waves. 

“Yes,  yes,”  he  said.  “But  I know  that  they  are 
always  saying  something.  Always  the  same  thing. 
What  place  is  over  there  ?”  He  rose  up,  looking  eager- 
ly at  the  horizon. 

She  told  him  that  there  was  another  country  opposite, 
but  he  said  he  didn’t  mean  that ; he  meant  farther 
away — farther  away  ! 

Very  often  afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  he 
would  break  off,  to  try  to  understand  what  it  was  that 
the  waves  were  always  saying  ; and  would  rise  up  in 
his  couch  ‘to  look  towards  that  invisible  region  far  away. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

In  which  the  Wooden  Midshipman  gets  into  Trouble. 

That  spice  of  romance  and  love  of  the  marvellous, 
of  which  there  was  a pretty  strong  infusion  in  the  nature 
of  Young  Walter  Gay,  and  which  the  guardianship  of 
his  uncle,  old  Solomon  Gills,  had  not  very  much  weak- 


LISTENING  TO  THE  SEA. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Yol.  Eleven,  page  441. 


442 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ened  by  the  waters  of  stern  practical  experience,  was 
the  occasion  of  his  attaching  an  uncommon  and  delight- 
ful interest  to  the  adventure  of  Florence  with  good  Mrs. 
Brown.  He  pampered  and  cherished  it  in  his  memory, 
especially  that  part  of  it  with  which  he  had  been  associ- 
ated ; until  it  became  the  spoiled  child  of  his  fancy,  and 
took  its  own  way,  and  did  what  it  liked  with  it. 

The  recollection  of  those  incidents,  and  his  own  share 
in  them, may  have  been  made  the  more  captivating,  per- 
haps, by  the  weekly  dreamings  of  old  Sol  and  Captain 
Cuttle  on  Sundays.  Hardly  a Sunday  passed,  without 
mysterious  references  being  made  by  one  or  other  of 
those  worthy  chums  to  Richard  Whittington  ; and  the 
latter  gentleman  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  purchase  a 
ballad  of  considerable  antiquity,  that  had  long  fluttered 
among  many  others,  chiefly  expressive  of  maritime  sen- 
timents, on  a dead  wall  in  the  Commercial-road  : which 
poetical  performance  set  forth  the  courtship  and  nup- 
tials of  a promising  young  coal-whipper  with  a certain 
“ lovely  Peg,”  the  accomplished  daughter  of  the  master 
and  part-owner  of  a Newcastle  collier.  In  this  stirring 
legend.  Captain  Cuttle  descried  a profound  metaphysi- 
cal bearing  on  the  case  of  Walter  and  Florence  ; and  it 
excited  him  so  much,  that  on  very  festive  occasions,  as 
birthdays  and  a few  other  non-Dominical  holidays,  he 
would  roar  through  the  whole  song  in  the  little  back 
parlour  ; making  an  amazing  shake  on  the  word  Pe — e- 
— eg,  with  which  every  verse  concluded,  in  compliment 
to  the  heroine  of  the  piece. 

But  a frank,  free-spirited,  open-hearted  boy,  is  not 
much  given  to  analysing  the  nature  of  his  own  feelings, 
however  strong  their  hold  upon  him  : and  Walter  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  decide  this  point.  He  had  a great 
affection  for  the  wharf  where  he  had  encountered  Flor- 
ence, and  for  the  streets  (albeit  not  enchanting  in  them- 
selves by  which  they  had  come  home.  The  shoes  that 
had  so  often  tumbled  off  by  the  way,  he  preserved  in  his 
own  room  ; and  sitting  in  the  little  back  parlour  of  an 
evening,  he  had  drawn  a whole  gallery  of  fancy  portraits 
of  Good  Mrs.  Brown.  It  may  be  that  he  became  a little 
smarter  in  his  dress  after  that  memorable  occasion  ; and 
ho  certainly  liked  in  his  leisure  time  to  walk  towards 
that  quarter  of  the  town  where  Mr.  Dombey’s  house 
was  situated,  on  the  vague  chance  of  passing  little  Flor- 
ence in  the  street.  But  the  sentiment  of  all  this  was  as 
boyish  and  innocent  as  could  be.  Florence  was  very 
pretty,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  admire  a pretty  face.  Flor- 
ence was  defenceless  and  weak,  and  it  was  a proud 
thought  that  he  had  been  able  to  render  her  any  protec- 
tion and  assistance.  Florence  was  the  most  grateful  little 
creature  in  the  world,  and  it  was  delightful  to  see  her 


DOMBBV  AND  SON. 


443 


bright  gratitude  beaming  in  her  face.  Florence  was 
neglected  and  coldly  looked  upon,  and  his  breast  was 
full  of  youthful  interest  for  the  slighted  child  in  her 
dull,  stately  home. 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  perhaps  some  half-a-dozen 
time  in  the  course  of  the  year,  Walter  pulled  off  his  hat 
to  Florence  in  the  street,  and  Florence  would  stop  to 
shake  hands.  Mrs.  Wickam  (who,  with  a characteristic 
alteration  of  his  name  invariably  spoke  of  him  as 
“Young  Graves  ”)  was  so  well  used  to  this,  knowing 
the  story  of  their  acquaintance,  that  she  took  no  heed  of 
it  at  all.  Miss  Nipper,  on  the  other  hand,  rather  looked 
out  for  these  occasions  : her  sensitive  young  heart  being 
seerectly  propitiated  by  Walter’s  good  looks,  and  inclin- 
ing to  the  belief  that  its  sentiments  were  responded  to. 

In  this  way,  Walter,  so  far  from  forgetting  or  losing 
sififht  of  his  acquaintance  with  Florence,  only  remem- 
bered it  better  and  better.  As  to  its  adventurous  begin* 
ning,  and  all  those  little  circumstances  which  gave  it  a 
distinctive  character  and  relish,  he  took  them  into  ac- 
count, more  as  a pleasant  story  very  agreeable  to  his 
imagination,  and  not  to  be  dismissed  from  it,  than  as  a 
part  of  any  matter  of  fact  with  which  he  was  concerned. 
They  set  off  Florence  very  much,  to  his  fancy  ; but  not 
himself.  Sometimes,  he  thought  (and  then  he  walked 
very  fast)  what  a grand  thing  it  would  have  been  for 
him  to  have  been  going  to  sea  on  the  day  after  that  first 
meeting,  and  to  have  gone,  and  to  have  done  wonders 
there,  and  to  have  stopped  away  a long  time,  and  to  have 
come  back  an  admiral  of  all  the  colours  of  the  dolphin, 
or  at  least  a post-captain  with  epaulettes  of  insupportable 
brightness,  and  have  married  Florence  (then  a beautiful 
young  woman)  in  spite  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  teeth,  cravat, 
and  watch-chain,  and  borne  her  away  to  the  blue  shores 
of  somewhere  or  other,  triumphantly.  But  these  flights 
of  fancy  seldom  burnished  the  brass  plate  of  Dombey 
and  Son’s  offices  into  a tablet  of  golden  hope,  or  shed  a 
brilliant  lustre  on  their  dirty  skylights  ; and  when  the 
captain  and  Uncle  Sol  talked  about  Richard  Whitting, 
ton  and  masters’  daughters,  Walter  felt  that  he  under, 
stood  his  true  position  at  Dombey  and  Sons,  much  better 
than  they  did. 

So  it  was  that  he  went  on  doing  what  he  had  to  do 
from  day  to  day,  in  a cheerful,  pains-taking,  merry  spirit ; 
and  saw  through  the  sanguine  complexion  of  Uncle 
Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  ; and  yet  entertained  a thousand 
indistinct  and  visionary  fancies  of  his  own,  to  which 
theirs  were  work-a-day  probabilities.  Such  was  his  con- 
dition  at  the  Pipchin  period,  when  he  looked  a little  old. 
er  than  of  yore,  but  not  much  ; and  was  the  same  light, 
footed,  light-hearted,  light-headed  lad,  as  when  he 


444 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


charged  into  the  parlour  at  the  head  of  Uncle  Sol  and 
the  imaginary  boarders,  and  lighted  him  to  bring  up  the 
Madeira. 

“ Uncle  Sol,”  said  Walter,  “I  don’t  think  you’re  well. 
You  haven’t  eaten  any  breakfast.  I shall  bring  a doctor 
to  you,  if  you  go  on  like  this.” 

“He  can’t  give  me  what  I want,  my  boy,”  said  Unci© 
Sol.  “ At  least  he  is  in  good  practice  if  he  can  and  then 
he  wouldn’t.” 

“ What  is  it,  uncle  ? Customers  ? ” 

“Aye,”  returned  Solomon,  with  a sigh.  “Customers 
would  do.” 

“ Confound  it,  uncle  1”  said  Walter,  putting  down  his 
breakfast-cup  with  a clatter,  and  striking  his  hand  on 
the  table  : “ when  I see  the  people  going  up  and  down 
the  street  in  shoals  all  day,  and  passing  and  repassing 
the  shop  every  minute  by  scores,  I feel  half  tempted  to 
rush  out,  collar  somebody,  bring  him  in,  and  make  him 
buy  fifty  pounds’  worth  of  instruments  for  ready  money. 
What  are  you  looking  in  at  the  door  for? — ” continued 
Walter,  apostrophizing  an  old  gentleman  with  a pow- 
dered head  (inaudibly  to  him  of  course),  who  was  staring 
at  a ship’s  telescope  with  all  his  might  and  main. 
“That’s  no  use.  I could  do  that.  Come  in  and  buy  it ! ” 

The  old  gentleman,  however,  having  satiated  his  cur- 
iosity, walked  calmly  away. 

•“There  he  goes!”  said  Walter.  “That’s  the  way 
with  ’em  all.  But  uncle — I say.  Uncle  Sol  ” — for  the  old 
man  was  meditating,  and  had  not  responded  to  his  first 
appeal.  “ Don’t  be  cast  down.  Don’t  be  out  of  spirits, 
uncle.  When  orders  do  come,  they’ll  come  in  such  a 
crowd  you  won’t  be  able  to  execute  ’em.” 

“ I shall  be  past  executing  ’em,  whenever  they  come, 
my  boy,”  returned  Solomon  Gills.  “ They’ll  never  come 
to  this  shop  agaiff,  till  I am  out  of  it.” 

“I  say,  uncle!  You  mustn’t  really,  you  know!” 
urged  Walter.  “ Don’t  ! ” 

Old  Sol  endeavoured  to  assume  a cheery  look,  and 
smiled  across  the  little  table  at  him  as  pleasantly  as  h© 
could. 

“ There’s  nothing  more  than  usual  the  matter  ; is 
there,  uncle?”  said  Walter,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
tea-tray,  and  bending  over,  to  speak  the  more  confiden- 
tially and  kindly.  “ Be  open  with  me,  uncle,  if  there  is- 
and  tell  me  all  about  it.” 

“No,  no,  no,”  returned  Old  Sol.  “More  than  usual? 
No,  no.  What  should  there  be  the  matter  more  than 
usual  ? ” 

Walter  answered  with  an  incredulous  shake  of  his 
head.  “That’s  what  I want  to  know,”  he  said,  “and 
you  ask  me!  I’ll  tell  you  what,  uncle,  when  I see  you 
like  this,  I am  quite  sorry  that  I live  with  you.” 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


445 


Old  Sol  opened  liis  eyes  involuntarily. 

“Yes.  Though  nobody  was  ever  hap.pier  than  I am 
and  always  have  been  with  you,  I am  quite  sorry  that  I 
live  with  you,  when  I see  you  with  anything  on  your 
mind.” 

“ I am  a little  dull  at  such  times,  I know,”  observed 
Solomon,  meekly  rubbing  his  hands. 

“ What  I mean,  Uncle  Sol,”  pursued  Walter,  bending 
over  a little  more  to  pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  “ is,  that 
then  I feel  you  ought  to  have,  sitting  here  and  pouring 
out  the  tea,  instead  of  me,  a nice  little  dumpling  of  a 
wife,  you  know — a comfortable,  capital,  cosey  old  lady, 
who  was  just  a match  for  you,  and  knew  how  to  manage 
you,  and  keep  you  in  good  heart.  Here  am  I,  as  loving 
a nephew  as  ever  was  (I  am  sure  I ought  to  be  !)  but  I am 
only  a nephew,  and  I can't  be  such  a companion  to  you 
when  you're  low  and  out  of  sorts  as  she  would  have  made 
herself,  years  ago,  though  I am  sure  Pd  give  any  money 
if  I could  cheer  you  up.  And  so  I say,  when  I see  you 
with  anything  on  your  mind,  that  I feel  quite  sorry  you 
naven't  got  somebody  better  about  you  than  a blundering 
young  rough -and-tough  boy  like  me,  who  has  got  the  will 
to  console  you,  uncle,  but  hasn’t  got  the  way — hasn't  got 
the  way,”  repeated  Walter,  reaching  over  further  yet,  to 
shake  his  uncle  by  the  hand. 

“ Wally,  my  dear  boy,”  said  Solomon,  “ if  the  cosey 
little  old  lady  had  taken  her  place  in  this  parlour  five- 
and  forty  years  ago,  I never  could  have  been  fonder  of 
her  than  I am  of  you.” 

“/know  that.  Uncle  Sol,”  returned  Walter.  “Lord 
bless  you,  I know  that.  But  you  wouldn’t  have  had  the 
whole  weight  of  any  uncomfortable  secrets  if  she  had 
been  with  you,  because  she  would  have  known  how  to 
relieve  you  of  'em,  and  I don't.” 

“Yes,  yes,  you  do,”  returned  the  instrument-maker. 

“Well  then,  what's  the  matter,  Uncle  Sol?”  said 
Walter,  coaxingly.  “Come?  What's  the  matter  ? ” 

Solomon  Gills  persisted  that  there  was  nothing  the 
mattter  ; and  maintained  it  so  resolutely,  that  his  nephew 
had  no  resource  but  to  make  a very  indifferent  imitation 
of  believing  him. 

“ All  I can  say  is.  Uncle  Sol,  that  if  there  is — ” 

“ But  there  isn’t,”  said  Solomon. 

“ Very  well,”  said  Walter.  “Then  I've  no  more  to 
say ; and  that's  lucky,  for  my  time’s  up  for  going  to 
business.  I shall  look  in  bye-and-bye  when  I’m  out,  to 
see  how  you  get  on,  uncle.  And  mind,  uncle  ! I'll  never 
believe  you  again,  and  never  tell  you  anything  more 
about  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior,  if  I find  out  that  you  have 
been  deceiving  me  1 ” 

Solomon  Gills  laughingly  defied  him  to  find  out  any. 


446 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


thing  of  the  kind  ; and  Walter,  revolving  in  his  thoughts 
all  sorts  of  impracticable  ways  of  making  fortunes  and 
placing  the  wooden  midshipman  in  a position  of  inde- 
pendence, betook  himself  to  the  offices  of  Dombey  and 
Son  with  a heavier  countenance  than  he  usually  carried 
there. 

There  lived  in  those  days,  round  the  corner  — in 
Bishopsgate-street  Without — one  Brogley,  sworn  broker 
and  appraiser,  who  kept  a shop  where  every  description 
of  second-hand  furniture  was  exhibited  in  the  most  un- 
comfortable aspect,  and  under  circumstances  and  in  com- 
binations the  most  completely  foreign  to  its  purpose. 
Dozens  of  chairs  hooked  on  to  washing-stands,  which  with 
difficulty  poised  themselves  on  the  shoulders  of  side- 
boards, which  in  their  turn  stood  upon  the  wrong  side  of 
dining-tables,  gymnastic  with  their  legs  upward  on  the 
tops  of  other  dining-tables,  were  among  its  most  reasona- 
ble arrangements.  A banquet  array  of  dish-covers,  wine- 
glasses, and  decanters,  was  generally  to  be  seen  spread 
forth  upon  the  bosom  of  a four-post  bedstead,  for  the 
entertainment  of  such  genial  company  as  half-a-dozen 
pokers,  and  a hall  lamp.  A set  of  window  curtains,  with 
no  windows  belonging  to  them,  would  be  seen  gracefully 
draping  a barricade  of  chests  of  drawers,  loaded  with 
little  jars  from  chemist's  shops  ; while  a homeless  hearth- 
rug, severed  from  its  natural  companion  the  fire-side, 
braved  the  shrewd  east  wind  in  its  adversity,  and  trem- 
bled in  melancholy  accord  with  the  shrill  complainings  of 
a cabinet  piano,  wasting  away,  a string  a day,  and  faintly 
resounding  to  the  noises  of  the  street  in  its  jangling  and 
distracted  brain.  Of  motionless  clocks  that  never  stirred 
a finger,  and  seemed  as  incapable  of  being  successfully 
wound  up,  as  the  pecuniary  affairs  of  their  former  own- 
ers, there  was  always  great  choice  in  Mr.  Brogley ’s  shop; 
and  various  looking-glasses,  accidentally  placed  at  com- 
pound interest  of  reflection  and  refraction,  presented  to 
the  eye  an  eternal  perspective  of  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

Mr.  Brogley  himself  was  a moist-eyed,  pink-complex- 
ioned,  crisp- haired  man,  of  a bulky  figure  and  an  easy 
temper — for  that  class  of  Caius  Marius  who  sits  upon  the 
ruins  of  other  people's  Cartilages,  can  keep  up  his 
spirits  well  enough.  He  had  looked  in  at  Solomon's 
shop  sometimes,  to  ask  a question  about  articles  in  Solo- 
mon's way  of  business  ; and  Walter  knew  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  give  him  good  day  when  they  met  in  the  street, 
but  as  that  was  the  extent  of  the  broker’s  acquaintance 
with  Solomon  drills  also,  Walter  was  not  a little  sur- 
prised when  he  came  back  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon, 
agreeably  to  his  promise,  to  find  Mr.  Brogley  sitting  in 
the  back  parlour  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his 
hat  hanging  up  behind  the  door. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


447 


te  Well,  Uncle  Sol  ! ” said  Walter.  The  old  man  was 
sitting  ruefully  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  with 
his  spectacles  over  his  eyes,  for  a wonder,  instead  of  on 
his  forehead.  ‘ * How  are  you  now  ? ” 

Solomon  shook  his  head,  and  waved  one  hand  towards 
the  broker,  as  introducing  him. 

“Is  there  anything  the  matter ?”  asked  Walter,  with 
a catching  in  his  breath. 

“ No,  no.  There’s  nothing  the  matter.”  said  Mr.  Brog- 
ley.  “ Don’t  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way.” 

Walter  looked  from  the  broker  to  his  uncle  in  mute 
amazement. 

“ The  fact  is,”  said  Mr.  Brogley,  “ there’s  a little  pay- 
ment on  a bond  debt — three  hundred  and  seventy  odd, 
over  due  : and  I’m  in  possession.” 

“ In  possession  ! ” cried  Walter,  looking  round  at  the 
shop. 

“Ah  !”  said  Mr.  Brogley,  in  confidential  assent,  and 
nodding  his  head  as  if  he  would  urge  the  advisability 
of  their  all  being  comfortably  together.  “ It’s  an  exe- 
cution. That’s  what  it  is.  Don’t  let  me  put  you  out  of 
the  way.  I come  myself  because  of  keeping  it  quiet  and 
sociable.  You  know  me.  It’s  quite  private.” 

“ Uncle  Sol ! ” faltered  Walter. 

“Wally,  my  boy,”  returned  his  uncle.  “ It’s  the  first 
time.  Such  a calamity  never  happened  to  me  before. 
I’m  an  old  man  to  begin.”  Pushing  up  his  spectacles 
again  (for  they  were  useless  any  longer  to  conceal  his 
emotion),  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sob- 
bed aloud,  and  his  tears  fell  down  upon  his  coffee-col- 
oured waistcoat. 

“ Uncle  Sol  ! Pray  ! oh  don’t!”  exclaimed  Walter, 
who  really  felt  a thrill  of  horror,  in  seeing  the  old  man 
weep.  “ For  God’s  sake  don’t  do  that.  Mr.  Brogley, 
what  shall  I do  ? ” 

“/  should  recommend  your  looking  up  a friend  or  so,” 
said  Mr.  Brogley,  “ and  talking  it  over.” 

“ To  be  sure  ! ” cried  Walter,  catching  at  anything, 
“ Certainly  ! Thankee.  Captain  Cuttle’s  the  man,  uncle. 
Wait  till  I run  to  Captain  Cuttle.  Keep  your  eye  upoz> 
my  uncle,  will  you,  Mr.  Brogley,  and  make  him  as  com- 
fortable as  you  can  while  1 am  gone  ? Don’t  despair. 
Uncle  Sol.  Try  and  keep  a good  heart,  there’s  a deaj 
fellow  ! ” 

Saying  this  with  great  fervour,  and  disregarding  the 
old  man’s  broken  remonstrances,  Walter  dashed  out  of 
the  shop  again  as  hard  as  he  could  go  ; and,  having  hur- 
ried round  to  the  office  to  excuse  himself  on  the  plea  of 
his  uncle’s  sudden  illness,  set  off,  full  speed,  for  Cap- 
tain  Cuttle’s  residence. 

Everything  seemed  altered  as  he  ran  along  the  streets. 


448 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


There  was  the  usual  entanglement  and  noise  of  carts, 
drays,  omnibuses,  waggons,  and  foot  passengers,  but  the 
misfortune  that  had  fallen  on  the  wooden  midshipman 
made  it  strange  and  new.  Houses  and  shops  were  differ, 
ent  from  what  they  used  to  be,  and  bore  Mr.  Brogley’s 
warrant  on  their  fronts  in  large  characters.  The  broker 
seemed  to  have  got  hold  of  the  very  churches  ; for  their 
spires  rose  into  the  sky  with  an  unwonted  air.  Ever) 
the  sky  itself  was  changed,  and  had  an  execution  in  if 
plainly. 

Captain  Cuttle  lived  on  the  brink  of  a little  canal  near 
the  India  Docks,  where  there  was  a swivel  bridge  which 
opened  now  and  then  to  let  some  wandering  monster  of 
a ship  come  roaming  up  the  street  like  a stranded  levia- 
than. The  gradual  change  from  land  to  water,  on  the 
approach  to  Captain  Cuttle’s  lodgings,  was  curious.  It 
began  with  the  erection  of  flag  staffs,  as  appurtenances 
to  public-houses ; then  came  slopsellers’  shops,  with 
Guernsey  shirts,  sou’wester  hats,  and  canvas  pantaloons, 
at  once  the  tightest  and  the  loosest  of  their  order,  hang- 
ing up  outside.  These  were  succeeded  by  anchor  and 
chain-cable  forges,  where  sledge  hammers  were  dinging 
upon  iron  all  day  long.  Then  came  rows  of  houses,  with 
little  vane-surmounted  masts  uprearing  themselves  from 
among  the  scarlet  beans.  Then,  ditches.  Then,  pollard 
willows.  Then,  more  ditches.  Then,  unaccountable 
patches  of  dirty  water,  hardly  to  be  described,  for  the 
ships  that  covered  them.  Then,  the  air  was  perfumed 
with  chips  ; and  all  other  trades  were  swallowed  up  in 
mast,  oar,  and  block  making,  and  boat  building.  Then, 
the  ground  grew  marshy  and  unsettled.  Then,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  smelt  but  rum  and  sugar.  Then,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle’s  lodgings — at  once  a first  floor  and  a top 
story,  in  Brig-place — were  close  before  you. 

The  captain  was  one  of  those  timber-looking  men, 
kuits  of  oak  as  well  as  hearts,  whom  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  the  liveliest  imagination  to  separate  from  any 
part  of  their  dress,  however  insignificant.  Accordingly 
when  Walter  knocked  at  the  door,  and  the  captain  in- 
stantly poked  his  head  out  of  one  of  his  little  front  win- 
dows, and  hailed  him,  with  the  hard  glazed  hat  already 
on  it,  and  the  shirt-collar  like  a sail,  and  the  wide  suit 
of  blue  all  standing  as  usual,  Walter  was  as  fully  per- 
suaded that  he  was  always  in  that  state,  as  if  the  Cap- 
tain had  been  a bird  and  those  had  been  his  feathers. 

“ Wal’r,  my  lad  ! ” said  Captain  Cuttle.  “ Stand  by 
and  knock  again.  Hard  ! It’s  washing  day.” 

Walter,  in  his  impatience,  gave  a prodigious  thump 
with  the  knocker. 

“ Hard  it  is!”  said  Captain  Cuttle,  and  immediately 
drew  in  his  head,  as  if  he  expected  a squall. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


449 


Nor  was  lie  mistaken  ; for  a widow  lady,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  arms  frothy 
with  soap-suds  and  smoking  with  hot-water,  replied  to 
the  summons  with  startling  rapidity.  Before  she  looked 
at  Walter  she  looked  at  the  knocker,  and  then,  measur- 
ing him  with  her  eyes  from  head  to  foot,  said  she  won- 
dered he  had  left  any  of  it. 

“ Captain  Cuttle's  at  home,  I know,"  said  Walter,  with 
a conciliatory  smile. 

“ Is  he  ? " replied  the  widow  lady.  “ In-deed  ! ” 

“ He  has  just  been  speaking  to  me,"  said  Walter,  in 
breathless  explanation. 

“Has  he?"  replied  the  widow  lady.  “Then  p'raps 
you'll  give  him  Mrs.  MacStinger’s  respects  and  say  that 
the  next  time  he  lowers  himself  and  his  lodgings  by 
talking  out  of  winder,  she'll  thank  him  to  come  down 
and  open  the  door  too."  Mrs.  MacStinger  spoke  loud, 
and  listened  for  any  observations  that  might  be  offered 
from  the  first  floor. 

“I'll  mention  it,"  said  Walter,  “if  you’ll  have  the 
goodness  to  let  me  in,  ma’am." 

For  he  was  repelled  by  a wooden  fortification  extend- 
ing across  the  doorway,  and  put  there  to  prevent  the 
little  MacStingers  in  their  moments  of  recreation  from 
tumbling  down  the  steps. 

“ A boy  that  can  knock  my  door  down,"  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  contemptuously,  “ can  get  over  that,  I 
should  hope  !"  But  Walter,  taking  this  as  a permission 
to  enter,  and  getting  over  it,  Mrs.  MacStinger  immedi- 
ately demanded  whether  an  Englishwoman's  house  was 
her  castle  or  not ; and  whether  she  was  to  be  broke  in 
upon  by  ‘raff.'  On  these  subjects  her  thirst  for  in- 
formation was  still  very  importunate,  when  Walter,  hav- 
ing made  his  way  up  the  little  staircase  through  an  arti- 
ficial fog  occasioned  by  the  washing,  which  covered  the 
banisters  with  a clammy  perspiration,  entered  Captain 
Cuttle's  room,  and  found  that  gentleman  in  ambush  be- 
hind. the  door. 

“ Never  owed  her  a penny,  Wal'r,"  said  Captain  Cuttl«, 
in  a low  voice,  and  with  visible  marks  of  trepidation  on 
his  countenance.  “ Done  her  a world  of  good  turns,  and 
the  children  too.  Vixen  at  times,  though.  Whew  ! " 

“ 1 should  go  away,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter. 

“ Dursn't  do  it,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain.  “ She'd 
find  me  out,  wherever  I went.  Sit  down.  How's  Gills  ? " 

The  captain  was  dining  (in  his  hat)  off  cold  loin  of 
mutton,  porter,  and  some  smoking  hot  potatoes,  which 
he  had  cooked  himself,  and  took  out  of  a little  saucepan 
before  the  fire  as  he  wanted  them.  He  unscrewed  his 
hook  at  dinner-time,  and  screwed  a knife  into  its  wooden 
socket  instead,  with  which  he  had  already  begun  to  peel 


450 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


one  of  these  potatoes  for  Walter.  His  rooms  were  very 
small,  and  strongly  impregnated  with  tobacco- smoke, 
but  snug  enough  : everything  being  stowed  away,  as  if 
there  were  an  earthquake  regularly  every  half  hour. 

“ How's  Gills ?"  inquired  the  captain. 

Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  recovered  his  breath, 
and  lost  his  spirits — or  such  temporary  spirits  as  his 
rapid  journey  had  given  him — looked  at  his  questioner 
for  a moment,  said  “Oh,  Captain  Cuttle  ! " and  burst  intQ 
tears. 

No  words  can  describe  the  captain's  consternation  at 
this  sight.  Mrs.  MacStinger  faded  into  nothing  beforq 
it.  He  dropped  the  potato  and  the  fork — and  would 
have  dropped  the  knife  too  if  he  could — and  sat  gazing 
at  the  boy,  as  if  he  expected  to  hear  next  moment  that  a 
gulf  had  opened  in  the  city,  which  had  swallowed  up 
his  old  friend,  coffee-coloured  suit,  buttons,  chronometer, 
spectacles,  and  all. 

But  when  Walter  told  him  what  was  really  the  matter, 
Captain  Cuttle,  after  a moment's  reflection,  started  up 
into  full  activity.  He  emptied  out  of  a little  tin  canister 
on  the  top  shelf  of  the  cupboard,  his  whole  stock  of 
ready  money  (amounting  to  thirteen  pounds  and  half-a- 
crown),  which  he  transferred  to  one  of  the  pockets  of  his 
square  blue  coat  : further  enriched  that  repository  with 
the  contents  of  his  plate  chest,  consisting  of  two  withered 
atomies  of  tea-spoons,  and  an  obsolete  pair  of  knock- 
knee’d  sugar-tongs  ; pulled  up  his  immense  double* 
cased  silver  watch  from  the  depths  in  which  it  reposed, 
to  assure  himself  that  that  valuable  was  sound  and 
whole  ; re-attached  the  hook  to  his  right  wrist  : and 
seizing  the  stick  covered  over  with  knobs,  bade  Walter 
come  along. 

Remembering,  however,  in  the  midst  of  his  virtuous 
excitement,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  might  be  lying  in  wait 
below.  Captain  Cuttle  hesitated  at  last,  not  without 
glancing  at  the  window,  as  if  he  had  some  thought  of 
escaping  by  that  unusual  means  of  egress,  rather  than 
encounter  his  terrible  enemy.  He  decided,  however,  in 
favour  of  stratagem. 

“ Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  with  a timid  wink,  “ go 
afore,  my  lad.  Sing  out,  f good  bye,  Captain  Cuttle,' 
when  you're  in  the  passage,  and  shut  the  door.  Then 
wait  at  the  corner  of  the  street  'till  you  see  me." 

These  directions  were  not  issued  without  a previous 
knowledge  of  the  enemy's  tactics,  for  when  Walter  got 
down-stairs,  Mrs.  MacStinger  glided  out  of  the  little 
back  kitchen,  like  an  avenging  spirit.  But  not  gliding 
out  upon  the  captain,  as  she  had  expected,  she  merely 
made  a further  allusion  to  the  knocker,  and  glided  in 
again. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


451 


Some  five  minutes  elapsed  before  Captain  Cuttle  could 
summon  courage  to  attempt  liis  escape ; for  Walter 
waited  so  long  at  the  street  corner,  looking  back  at  the 
house,  before  there  were  any  symptoms  of  the  hard 
glazed  hat.  At  length  the  captain  burst  out  of  the  door 
with  the  suddenness  of  an  explosion,  and  coming  towards 
him  at  a great  pace,  and  never  once  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  pretended  as  soon  as  they  were  well  out  of  the 
street,  to  whistle  a tune. 

“ Uncle  much  hove  down,  Wal’r?”  inquired  the  cap- 
tain  as  they  were  walking  along. 

“I  am  afraid  so.  If  you  had  seen  him  this  morning, 
yon  would  never  have  forgotten  it.  ” 

“ Walk  fast,  Wal’r  my  lad/’  returned  the  captain, 
mending  his  pace  ; “ and  walk  the  same  all  the  days  of 
your  life.  Over-haul  the  catechism  for  that  advice,  and 
keep  it  ! ” 

The,  oapttein  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  of 
Soiomon  Gills,  mingled  perhaps  with  some  reflections  on 
his  late  escape  from  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to  offer  any  further 
quotations  on  the  way  for  Walter’s  moral  improvement. 
They  interchanged  no  other  word  until  they  arrived  at  old 
Sol’s  door,  where  the  unfortunate  wooden  midshipman, 
with  his  instrument  at  his  eye,  seemed  to  be  surveying  the 
whole  horizon  in  search  of  some  friend  to  help  him  out 
of  his  difficulty. 

“ Gills  ! ” said  the  captain,  hurrying  into  the  back  par- 
lour, and  taking  him  by  the  hand  quite  tenderly.  “ Lay 
your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we’ll  fight  through  it. 
All  you’ve  got  to  do,”  said  the  captain,  with  the  solem- 
nity of  a man  who  was  delivering  himself  of  one  of  the 
most  precious  practical  tenets  ever  discovered  by  human 
wisdom,  “ is  to  lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we’ll 
fight  through  it!  ” 

Old  Sol  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked 
him. 

Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  a gravity  suitable  to  the 
nature  of  the  occasion,  put  down  upon  the  table  the  two 
tea-spoons  and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  silver  watch,  and  the 
ready  money  ; and  asked  Mr.  Brogley,  the  broker,  what 
the  damage  was. 

“Come!  What  do  you  make  of  it? ’’said  Captain 
Cuttle. 

“ Why,  Lord  help  you  !”  returned  the  broker  ; “you 
don’t  suppose  that  property’s  of  any  use,  do  you  ? ” 

“Why  not?”  inquired  the  captain. 

“Why?  The  amount’s  three  hundred  and  seventy, 
odd,”  replied  the  broker. 

“Never  mind,”  returned  the  captain,  though  he  was 
evidently  dismayed  by  the  figures  : “ all’s  fish  that  comes 
to  your  net,  I suppose  ? ” 


452 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Certainly/’  said  Mr.  Brogley.  “But  sprats  an’t 
whales,  you  know/’ 

The  philosophy  of  this  observation  seemed  to  strike 
the  captain.  He  ruminated  for  a minute  ; eyeing  the 
broker,  meanwhile,  as  a deep  genius  ; and  then  called 
the  instrument-maker  aside. 

“ Gills,”  said  Captain  Cuttle,  “ what’s  the  bearings  of 
this  business?  Who’s  the  creditor  ? ” 

“Hush!”  returned  the  old  man.  “Come  away, 
pon’t  speak  before  Wally.  It’s  a matter  of  security  for 
Wally’s  father — an  old  bond.  I’ve  paid  a good  deal  of 
It,  Ned,  but  the  times  are  so  bad  with  me  that  I can’t 
do  more  just  now.  I’ve  foreseen  it,  but  I couldn’t  help 
it.  Not  a word  before  Wally,  for  all  the  world.” 

“ You’ve  got  some  money,  haven’t  you  ? ” whispered 
the  captain. 

“ Yes,  yes — oh  yes— I’ve  got  some,”  returned  old  Sol, 
first  putting  his  hands  into  his  empty  pockets,  and  then 
squeezing  his  Welsh  wig  between  them,  as  if  he  thought 
he  might  wring  some  gold  out  of  it ; “ but  I — the  little 
I have  got,  isn’t  convertible,  Ned  ; it  can’t  be  got  at.  I 
have  been  trying  to  do  something  with  it  for  Wally,  and 
I’m  old-fashioned,  and  behind  the  time.  It’s  here  and 
there,  and — and,  in  short,  it’s  as  good  as  nowhere,”  said 
the  old  man,  looking  in  bewilderment  about  him. 

He  had  so  much  the  air  of  a half-witted  person  who 
had  been  hiding  his  money  in  a variety  of  places,  and 
had  forgotten  where,  that  the  captain  followed  his  eyes, 
not  without  a faint  hope  that  he  might  remember  some 
few  hundred  pounds  concealed  up  the  chimney,  or  down 
in  the  cellar.  But  Solomon  Gills  knew  better  than 
that. 

“ I’m  behind  the  time  altogether,  my  dear  Ned,”  said 
Sol,  in  resigned  despair,  “a  long  way.  It’s  no  use  my 
lagging  on  so  far  behind  it.  The  stock  had  better  be  sold 
—it’s  worth  more  than  this  debt— and  I had  better  go 
and  die  somewhere  on  the  balance.  I haven’t  any  energy 
left.  I don’t  understand  things.  This  had  better  be 
the  end  of  it.  Let  ’em  sell  the  stock  and  take  him 
down,”  said  the  old  man,  pointing  feebly  to  the  wooden 
•midshipman,  “and  let  us  both  be  broken  up  together.” 

“And  what  d’ye  mean  to  do  with  Wal’r?”  said  the 
captain.  “There,  there  ! Sit  ye  down.  Gills,  sit  ye 
down,  and  let  me  think  o’  this.  If  I warn’t  a man  on  a 
small  annuity,  that  was  large  enough  till  to-day,  I hadn’t 
need  to  think  of  it.  But  you  only  lay  your  head  well  to 
the  wind,”  said  the  captain,  again  administering  that 
unanswerable  piece  of  consolation,  “ and  you’re  all 
right ! ” 

Old  Sol  thanked  him  from  his  heart,  and  went  a&*l 
laid  it  against  the  back  parlour  fire-place  instead. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


453 


Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  and  down  the  shop  for  some 
time,  cogitating  profoundly,  and  bringing  bis  busby 
black  eyebrows  to  bear  so  heavily  on  his  nose,  like 
clouds  settling  on  a mountain,  that  Walter  w*as  afraid 
to  offer  any  interruption  to  the  current  of  his  reflec- 
tions. Mr.  Brogley,  who  was  averse  to  being  any  con- 
straint upon  the  party,  and  who  had  an  ingenious  cast 
of  mind,  went,  softly  whistling,  among  the  stock  ; rat- 
tling weather  glasses,  shaking  compasses  as  if  they 
were  physic,  catching  up  keys  with  loadstones,  looking 
through  telescopes,  endeavouring  to  make  himself  ac* 
quainted  with  the  use  of  the  globes,  setting  parallel 
rulers  astride  on  to  his  nose,  and  amusing  himself  with 
other  philosophical  transactions. 

“ Wal’r  !”  said  the  captain  at  last.  “ I’ve  got  it.” 

“Have  you.  Captain  Cuttle?”  cried  Walter,  with 
great  animation. 

“Come  this  way,  my  lad,”  said  the  captain.  “The 
stock’s  one  security.  Fm  another.  Your  governor’s  the 
man  to  advance  the  money.” 

“Mr.  Dombey  ! ” faltered  Walter. 

The  captain  nodded  gravely.  “Look  at  him,”  he 
said.  “ Look  at  Gills.  If  they  was  to  sell  off  these 
things  now,  he’d  die  of  it.  You  know  he  would.  We 
mustn’t  leave  a stone  unturned — and  there’s  a stone  for 
you.” 

“ A stone  ! — Mr.  Dombey  ! ” faltered  Walter. 

“You  run  round  to  the  office,  first  of  all,  and  see  if 
he’s  there,”  said  Captain  Cuttle,  clapping  him  on  the 
back.  “ Quick  ! 99 

Walter  felt  he  must  not  dispute  the  command — a glance 
at  his  uncle  would  have  determined  him  if  he  had  felt 
otherwise — and  disappeared  to  execute  it.  He  soon  re- 
turned, out  of  breath,  to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  not 
there.  It  was  Saturday,  and  he  had  gone  to  Brighton. 

“I  tell  you  what,  Wal’r!”  said  the  captain,  who 
seemed  to  have  prepared  himself  for  this  contingency  in 
his  absence.  “ We’ll  go  to  Brighton.  I’ll  back  you, 
my  boy.  I’ll  back  you,  Wal’r.  We’ll  go  to  Brighton 
by  the  afternoon’s  coach.” 

If  the  application  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Dombey  at 
all,  which  was  awful  to  think  of,  Walter  felt  that  he 
would  rather  prefer  it  alone  and  unassisted,  than  backed 
by  the  personal  influence  of  Captain  Cuttle,  to  wrhich  he 
hardly  thought  Mr.  Dombey  would  attach  much  weight. 
But  as  the  captain  appeared  to  be  of  quite  another  opin- 
ion, and  was  bent  upon  it,  and  as  his  friendship  was  too 
zealous  and  serious  to  be  trifled  with  by  one  so  much 
younger  than  himself,  he  forebore  to  hint  the  least  ob- 
jection. Cuttle,  therefore,  taking  a hurried  leave  of 
Solomon  Gills,  and  returning  the  ready  money,  the  tea* 


454 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


spoons,  the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  silver  watch,  to  his 
pocket— with  a view,  as  Walter  thought,  with  horror, 
to  making  a gorgeous  impression  on  Mr.  Dombey — bore 
him  off  to  the  coach -office,  without  a minute's  delay, 
and  repeatedly  assured  him,  on  the  road,  that  he  would 
stick  by  him  to  the  last. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Containing  the  Sequel  of  the  Mdshipman's  Disaster. 

Major  Bagstock,  after  long  and  frequent  observa- 
tion of  Paul,  across  Princess’s-place,  through  his  double 
barrelled  opera  glass  ; and  after  receiving  many  minute 
reports,  daily,  weekly,  and  monthly,  on  that  subject, 
from  the  native,  who  kept  himself  in  constant  communi- 
cation with  Miss  Tox’s  maid  for  that  purpose  ; came 
to  the  conclusion  that  Dombey,  sir,  was  a man  to  be 
known,  and  that  J.  B.  was  the  boy  to  make  his  acquain- 
tance. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  maintaining  her  reserved  beha- 
viour, and  frigidly  declining  to  understand  the  major 
whenever  he  called  (which  he  often  did)  on  any  little 
fishing  excursion  connected  with  this  project,  the  major, 
in  spite  of  his  constitutional  toughness  and  slyness,  was 
fain  to  leave  the  accomplishment  of  his  desire  in  some 
measure  to  chance,  “ which,"  as  he  was  used  to  observe 
with  chuckles  at  his  club,  " has  been  fifty  to  one  in 
favour  of  Joey  B.,  sir,  ever  since  his  elder  brother  died 
of  Yellow  Jack  in  the  West  Indies." 

It  was  some  time  coming  to  his  aid  in  the  present  in- 
stance, but  it  befriended  him  at  last.  When  the  dark 
servant,  with  full  particulars,  reported  Miss  Tox  absent 
on  Brighton  service,  the  major  was  suddenly  touched 
with  affectionate  reminiscences  of  his  friend  Bill  Bither- 
stone  of  Bengal,  who  had  written  to  ask  him,  if  he  ever 
went  that  way,  to  bestow  a call  upon  his  only  son.  But 
when  the  same  dark  servant  reported  Paul  at  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's,  and  the  major,  referring  to  the  letter  favoured  by 
Master  Bitherstone  on  his  arrival  in  England — to  which 
he  had  never  had  the  least  idea  of  paying  any  attention 
— saw  the  opening  that  presented  itself,  he  was  made  so 
rabid  by  the  gout,  with  which  he  happened  to  be  then 
laid  up,  that  he  threw  a footstool  at  the  dark  servant 
in  return  for  his  intelligence,  and  swore  he  would  be  the 
death  of  the  rascal  before  he  had  done  with  him  : which 
the  dark  servant  was  more  than  half  disposed  to  believe. 

At  length  the  major  being  released  from  his  fit,  went 
one  Saturday  growling  down  to  Brighton,  with  the  native 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


455 


behind  him  : apostrophising  Miss  Tox  all  the  way,  and 
gloating  over  the  prospect  of  carrying  by  storm  the  dis- 
tinguished friend  to  whom  she  attached  so  much  mys- 
tery, and  for  whom  she  had  deserted  him. 

“ Would  you,  ma’am,  would  you  ! ” said  the  major, 
straining  with  vindictiveness,  and  swelling  every  already 
swollen  vein  in  his  head.  “ Would  you  give  Joey  B. 
the  go-by,  ma’am  ? Not  yet,  ma’am,  not  yet  ! Damme, 
not  yet,  sir.  Joe  is  awake,  ma’am.  Bagstock  is  alive, 
sir.  J.  B.  knows  a move  or  two,  ma’am.  Josh  has  his 
weather-eye  open,  sir.  You’ll  find  him  tough,  ma’am. 
Tough,  sir,  tough  is  Joseph.  Tough,  and  de-vil-ish 
sly  ! ” 

And  very  tough  indeed  Master  Bitherstone  found  him, 
when  he  took  that  young  gentleman  out  for  a walk.  But 
the  major,  with  his  complexion  like  a Stilton  cheese,  and 
his  eyes  like  a prawn’s,  went  roving  about,  perfectly  in- 
different to  Master  Bitherstone’s  amusement,  and  drag- 
ging Master  Bitherstone  along,  while  he  looked  about 
him  high  and  low  for  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  children. 
i In  good  time  the  major,  previously  instructed  by 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  spied  out  Paul  and  Florence,  and  bore 
down  upon  them  ; there  being  a stately  gentleman  (Mr, 
Dombey,  doubtless)  in  the  company.  Charging  with 
Master  Bitherstone  into  the  very  heart  of  the  little 
squadron,  it  fell  out,  of  course,  that  Master  Bitherstone 
spoke  to  his  fellow-sufferers.  Upon  that  the  major 
Stopped  to  notice  and  admire  them ; remembered  with 
amazement  that  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  them  at  his 
friend  Miss  Tox’s  in  Princess’s-place  : opined  that  Paul 
was  a devilish  fine  fellow,  and  his  own  little  friend  ; in- 
quired if  he  remembered  Joey  B.  the  major  ; and  finally, 
with  a sudden  recollection  of  the  conventionalities  of 
life,  turned  and  apologised  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

“But  my  little  friend  here,  sir,”  said  the  major, 
“makes  a boy  of  me  again.  An  old  soldier,  sir — Major 
Bagstock,  at  your  service — is  not  ashamed  to  confess  it.” 
Here  the  major  lifted  his  hat.  “ Damme,  sir,”  cried  the 
inajor  with  sudden  warmth,  “ I envy  you.”  Then  he 
recollected  himself , and  added,  “Excuse  my  freedom.” 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  he  wouldn’t  mention  it. 

“ An  old  campaigner,  sir,”  said  the  major,  “ a smoke- 
dried,  sun-burnt,  used-up,  invalided  old  dog  of  a major, 
sir,  was  not  afraid  of  being  condemned  for  his  whim  by 
a man  like  Mr.  Dombey.  I have  the  honour  of  address- 
ing Mr.  Dombey,  I believe  ! ” 

“ I am  the  present  unworthy  representative  of  that 
hame,  major,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ By  G — , sir,”  said  the  major,  “it’s  a great  name. 
It’s  a name,  sir,”  said  the  major  firmly,  as  if  he  dened 
Mr.  Dombey  to  contradict  him,  and  would  feel  it  ids 


456 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


painful  duty  to  bully  him  if  he  did,  ‘‘that  is  known  and 
honoured  in  the  British  possessions  abroad.  It  is  a 
name,  sir,  that  a man  is  proud  to  recognise.  There  is 
nothing  adulatory  in  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir.  ITis  Royal 
Highness  the  Duke  of  York  observed  on  more  than  one 
occasion  ‘ there  is  no  adulation  in  Joey.  He  is  a plain 
old  soldier  is  Joe.  He  is  tough  to  a fault  is  Joseph  : ’ 
but  it’s  a great  name,  sir.  By  the  Lord,  it's  a great 
name  ! ” said  the  major,  solemnly. 

“ You  are  good  enough  to  rate  it  higher  than  it  de. 
serves  perhaps,  major/'  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

“No,  sir,"  said  the  major.  “ My  little  friend  here, 
sir,  will  certify  for  Joseph  Bagstock  that  he  is  a thor- 
ough-going*, down-right,  plain-spoken,  old  Trump,  sir, 
and  nothing  more.  That  boy,  sir,"  said  the  major  in  a 
low  tone,  “ will  live  in  history.  That  boy,  sir,  is  not  a 
common  production.  Take  care  of  him,  Mr.  Dombey." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  would  endeav- 
our to  do  so, 

“Here  is  a boy  here,  sir,"  pursued  the  major,  confiden- 
tially, and  giving  him  a thrust  with  his  cane.  “ Son  cf 
Bitherstone  of  Bengal.  Bill  Bitherstone  formerly  of  ours. 
That  boy’s  father  and  myself,  sir,  were  sworn  friends. 
Wherever  you  went,  sir,  you  heard  of  nothing  but  Bill 
Bitherstone  and  Joe  Bagstock.  Am  I blind  to  that  boy’s 
defects?  By  no  means.  He’s  a fool,  sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  libelled  Master  Bither- 
stone of  whom  he  knew  at  least  as  much  as  the  major 
did,  and  said,  in  quite  a complacent  manner,  ‘ ‘ Really  ? " 

“That  is  what  he  is,  sir,"  said  the  major.  “He’s  a 
fool.  Joe  Bagstock  never  minces  matters.  The  son  of 
my  old  friend  Bill  Bitherstone  of  Bengal  is  a born  fool, 
sir."  Here  the  major  laughed  till  he  Avas  almost  black. 
“ My  little  friend  is  destined  for  a public  school,  I pre- 
sume, Mr.  Dombey  ? " said  the  major  when  he  had  re- 
covered. 

“ I am  not  quite  decided,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  “ I 
think  not.  He  is  delicate." 

**  If  he’s  delicate,  sir,"  said  the  major,  “you  are  right. 
None  but  the  tough  fellows  could  live  through  it,  sir,  at 
Sandhurst.  We  put  each  other  to  the  torture  there,  sir. 
We  roasted  the  new  fellows  at  a slow  fire,  and  hung  ’em 
out  of  a three  pair  of  stairs  window,  with  their  heads 
downwards.  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir,  Avas  held  out  of  the 
window  by  the  heels  of  his  boots  for  thirteen  minutes 
by  the  college  clock." 

The  major  might  haAre  appealed  to  his  countenance  in 
corroboration  of  this  story.  It  certainly  looked  as  if  he 
had  hung  out  a little  too  long. 

“But  it  made  us  AA’liat  we  were,  sir,"  said  the  major* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


457 


settling  liis  shirt,  frill.  “ We  were  iron,  sir,”  and  it 
forged  us.  Are  you  remaining  here,  Mr.  Dombey  ? ” 

“ I generally  come  down  once  a week,  major,”  re- 
turned that  gentleman.  “ I stay  at  the  Bedford.’ 

“ I shall  have  the  honour  of  calling  at  the  Bedford, 
sir,  if  you’ll  permit  me,”  said  the  major.  “JoevB, 
sir,  is  not  in  general  a calling  man,  but  Mr.  Dombey’s  is 
not  a common  name.  I am  much  indebted  to  roy  little 
friend,  sir,  for  the  honour  of  this  introduction.” 

Mr.  Dombey  made  a very  gracious  reply  ; and  Major 
Bagstock,  having  patted  Paul  on  the  head,  and  said  of 
Florence  that  her  eyes  would  play  the  devil  with  the 
youngsters  before  long — “and  the  oldsters  too,  sir,  if  you 
come  to  that,”  added  the  major,  chuckling  very  much — 
stirred  up  Master  Bitlierstone  with  his  walking-stick, 
and  departed  with  that  young  gentleman,  at  a kind  of 
half- trot ; rolling  his  head  and  coughing  with  great 
dignity,  as  he  staggered  away,  with  his  legs  very  wide 
asunder. 

In  fulfilment  of  his  promise,  the  major  afterwards 
called  on  Mr.  Dombey  ; and  Mr.  Dombey,  having  re- 
ferred to  the  army  list,  afterwards  called  on  the  major. 
Then  the  major  called  at  Mr.  Dombey’s  house  in  town  ; 
and  came  down  again,  in  the  same  coach  as  Mr.  Dombey. 
In  short,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  got  on  uncommon- 
ly well  together,  and  uncommonly  fast  ; and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey observed  of  the  major,  to  his  sister,  that  besides  be- 
ing quite  a military  man  he  was  really  something  more, 
as  he  had  a very  admirable  idea  of  the  importance  of 
things  unconnected  with  his  own  profession. 

At  length  Mr.  Dombey,  bringing  down  Miss  Tox  and 
Mrs.  Chick  to  see  the  children,  and  finding  the  major 
again  at  Brighton,  invited  him  to  dinner  at  the  Bedford, 
and  complimented  Miss  Tox  highly,  beforehand,  on  her 
neighbour  and  acquaintance.  Notwithstanding  the  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart  which  these  allusions  occasioned 
her.  they  were  anything  but  disagreeable  to  Miss  Tox, 
as  they  enabled  her  to  be  extremely  interesting,  and  to 
manifest  an  occasional  incoherence  and  distraction  which 
she  was  not  at  all  unwilling  to  display.  The  major  gave 
her  abundant  opportunities  of  exhibiting  this  emotion 
being  profuse  in  his  complaints,  at  dinner,  of  her  deser- 
tion of  him  and  Princess’ s-place  : and  as  he  appeared  to 
derive  great  enjoyment  from  making  them,  they  all  got 
on  very  well. 

None  the  worse  on  account  of  the  major  taking  charge 
of  the  whole  conversation,  and  showing  as  great  an  ap- 
petite in  that  respect  as  in  regard  of  the  various  dainties 
on  the  table,  among  which  he  may  be  almost  said  to  have 
wallowed  : greatly  to  the  aggravation  of  his  inflammatory 
tendencies.  Mr.  Dombey’s  habitual  silence  and  reserve 


458 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


yielding  readily  to  this  usurpation,  the  major  felt  that 
he  was  coming  out  and  shining  : and  in  the  flow  of  spirits 
thus  engendered,  rang  such  an  infinite  number  of  new 
changes  on  his  own  name  that  he  quite  astonished  him- 
self. In  a word,  they  were  all  very  well  pleased.  The 
major  was  considered  to  possess  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
conversation  ; and  when  he  took  a late  farewell,  after  a 
long  rubber,  Mr.  Dombey  again  complimented  the  blush- 
ing Miss  Tox  on  her  neighbour  and  acquaintance. 

But  all  the  way  home  to  his  own  hotel,  the  major  in- 
cessantly said  to  himself,  and  of  himself,  “ Sly,  sir — sly, 
sir — de-vil-isn  sly  ! ” And  when  he  got  there,  sat  down 
in  a chair,  and  fell  into  a silent  fit  of  laughter,  with  which 
he  was  sometimes  seized,  and  which  was  always  particu- 
larly awful.  It  held  him  so  long  on  this  occasion  that 
the  dark  servant,  who  stood  watching  him  at  a distance, 
but  dared  not  for  his  life  approach,  twice  or  thrice  gave 
him  over  for  lost.  His  whole  form,  but  especially  his 
face  and  head,  dilated  beyond  all  former  experience  ; 
and  presented  to  the  dark  man’s  view,  nothing  but  a 
heaving  mass  of  indigo.  At  length  he  burst  into  a vio- 
lent paroxysm  of  coughing,  and  when  that  was  a little 
better  burst  into  such  ejaculations  as  the  following  : 

“ Would  you,  ma’am,  would  you?  Mrs.  Dombey,  eh 
ma’am  ? I think  not,  ma’am.  Not  while  Joe  B.  can  put 
a spoke  in  your  wheel,  ma’am.  J.  B.’s  even  with  you 
now,  ma’am.  He  isn’t  altogether  bowled  out,  yet,  sir, 
isn’t  Bagstock.  She’s  deep,  sir,  deep,  but  Josh  is  deeper. 
Wide  awake  is  old  Joe— broad  awake,  and  staring,  sir  !” 
There  was  no  doubt  of  this  last  assertion  being  true,  and 
to  a very  fearful  extent ; as  it  continued  to  be  during  the 
greater  part  of  that  night,  which  the  major  chiefly  passed 
in  similar  exclamations,  diversified  with  fits  of  coughing 
and  choking  that  startled  the  whole  house. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  this  occasion  (being  Sunday) 
when,  as  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Chick,  and  Miss  Tox  were 
sitting  at  breakfast,  still  eulogising  the  major,  Florence 
came  running  in  ; her  face  suffused  with  a bright  colour, 
and  her  eyes  sparkling  joyfully  ; and  cried, 

“ Papa  ! Papa  I Here’s  Walter  ! and  he  won’t  come  in.” 

“ Who  ? ” cried  Mr.  Dombey.  “ What  does  she  mean  ? 
What  is  this  ? ” 

“Walter,  papa,”  said  Florence  timidly;  sensible  of 
having  approached  the  presence  with  too  much  familiar- 
ity. “ Who  found  me  when  I was  lost.” 

“Does  she  mean  young  Gay,  Louisa?”  inquired  Mr. 
Dombey,  knitting  his  brows.  * ‘ Really,  this  child’s  man- 
ners have  become  very  boisterous.  She  cannot  mean 
young  Gay,  I think.  See  what  it  is,  will  you  ?” 

Mrs.  Chick  hurried  into  the  passage,  and  returned  with 
the  information  that  it  was  young  Gay,  accompanied  by 


SAT  DOWN  IN  A CHAIR,  AND  FELL  INTO  A SILENT  FIT  OF  LAUGHTER. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  459. 


460 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


a very  strange-looking  person  ; and  that  young  Gay  said 
he  would  not  take  the  liberty  of  coming  in,  hearing  Mr, 
Dombey  was  at  breakfast,  but  would  wait  until  Mr. 
Do m bey  should  signify  that  he  might  approach. 

“Tell  the  boy  to  come  in  now,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
“ Now,  Gay,  what  is  the  matter  ? Who  sent  you  dowu 
here  ? Was  there  nobody  else  to  come  ? ” 

“X  beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  returned  Walter.  “I  have 
not  been  sent.  I have  been  so  bold  as  to  come  on  my 
own  account,  which  I hope  you’ll  pardon  when  I mention 
the  cause.” 

But  Mr.  Dombey  without  attending  to  what  he  said, 
was  looking  impatiently  on  either  side  of  him  (as  if  he 
were  a pillar  in  his  way)  at  some  object  behind. 

“What’s  that?”  said  Mr.  Dombey.  “Who  is  that? 
I think  you  have  made  some  mistake  in  the  door,  sir.” 

“ Oh,  I’m  very  sorry  to  intrude  with  any  one,  sir,”  cried 
Walter,  hastily:  “ but  this  is — this  is  Captain  Cuttle,  sir.” 

“ Wal’r,  my  lad,”  observed  the  captain  in  a deep  voice, 
“stand by  !” 

At  the  same  time  the  captain,  coming  a little  farther  in, 
brought  out  his  wide  suit  of  blue,  his  conspicuous  shirt- 
collar,  and  his  nobby  nose  in  full  relief,  and  stood  bow- 
ing to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  waving  his  hook  politely  to  the 
ladies,  with  the  hard  glazed  hat  in  his  one  hand,  and  a 
red  equator  round  his  head  which  it  had  newly  imprinted 
there. 

Mr.  Dombey  regarded  this  phenomenon  with  amaze- 
ment and  indignation,  and  seemed  by  his  looks  to  appeal 
to  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  against  it.  Little  Paul, 
who  had  come  in  after  Florence,  backed  towards  Miss 
Tox  as  the  captain  waved  his  hook,  and  stood  on  the 
defensive. 

“ Now,  Gay,”  said  Mr.  Dombey.  “ What  have  you 
got  to  say  to  me  ? ” 

Again  the  captain  observed,  as  a general  opening  of  the 
conversation  that  could  not  fail  to  propitiate  all  parties, 
“ Wal’r,  stand  by  ! ” 

“ I am  afraid,  sir,”  began  Walter,  trembling  and  look- 
ing down  at  the  ground,  “ that  I take  a very  great  liberty 
in  coming — indeed,  I am  sure  I do.  I.  should  hardly  have 
had  the  courage  to  ask  to  see  you,  sir,  even  after  coming 
down,  I am  afraid,  if  I had  not  overtaken  Miss  Dombey, 
and — ” 

“Well  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey,  following  his  eyes  as  he 
glanced  at  the  attentive  Florence,  and  frowning  uncon, 
sciously  as  she  encouraged  him  with  a smile.  “ Go  on, 
if  you  please.” 

“Aye,  aye,”  observed  the  captain,  considering  it  in- 
cumbent on  him,  as  a point  of  good  breeding,  to  support 
Mr.  Dombey.  “Well  said  1 Go  on,  Wal’r.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


461 


Captain  Cuttle  ought  to  have  been  withered  by  the 
look  which  Mr.  Dombey  bestowed  upon  him  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  patronage.  But  quite  innocent  of  this,  he 
closed  one  eye  in  reply,  and  gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  under- 
stand, by  certain  significant  motions  of  his  hook,  that 
Walter  was  a little  bashful  at  first,  and  might  be  expected 
to  come  out  shortly. 

“It  is  entirely  a private  and  personal  matter  that  has 
brought  me  here,  sir,”  continued  Walter,  faltering,  “ and 
Captain  Cuttle — ” 

“ Here  ! ” interposed  the  captain,  as  an  assurance  that 
he  was  at  hand,  and  might  be  relied  upon . 

“ Who  is  a very  old  friend  of  my  poor  uncle’s,  and  e. 
most  excellent  man,  sir,”  pursued  Walter,  raising  his 
eyes  with  a look  of  entreaty  in  the  captain’s  behalf,  “was 
so  good  as  to  offer  to  come  with  me,  which  I could  hardly 
refuse.” 

“ No,  no,  no,”  observed  the  captain  complacently. 
" Of  course  not.  No  call  for  refusing.  Go  on,  Wal’r.” 

“And  therefore,  sir,”  said  Walter,  venturing  to  meet 
Mr.  Dom  bey’s  eyes  and  proceeding  with  better  courage 
in  the  very  desperation  of  the  case,  now  that  there  was 
no  avoiding  it,  “ therefore  I have  come  with  him,  sir,  to 
say  that  my  poor  old  uncle  is  in  very  great  affliction  and 
distress.  That  through  the  gradual  loss  of  his  business, 
and  not  being  able  to  make  a payment,  the  apprehension 
of  which  has  weighed  very  heavily  upon  his  mind, 
months  and  months,  as  indeed  I know,  sir,  he  has  an  ex. 
ecution  in  his  house,  and  is  danger  of  losing  all  he  has* 
and  breaking  his  heart.  And  that  if  you  would,  in  your 
kindness,  and  in  your  old  knowledge  of  him  as  a respecta 
ble  man,  do  anything  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty,  sir, 
we  never  could  thank  you  enough  for  it,” 

Walter’s  filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke  ; and  so  did 
those  of  Florence.  Her  father  saw  them  glistening, 
though  he  appeared  to  look  at  Walter  only. 

“ It  is  a very  large  sum,  sir,”  said  Walter.  “ More 
than  three  hundred  pounds.  My  uncle  is  quite  beaten 
down  by  his  misfortune,  it  lies  so  heavy  on  him  ; and  is 
quite  unable  to  do  anything  for  his  own  relief.  He 
doesn’t  even  know  yet  that  I have  come  to  speak  to  you. 
You  would  wish  me  to  say,  sir,”  added  Walter,  after  a 
moment’s  hesitation,  “ exactly  what  it  is  I want.  I re- 
ally don’t  know,  sir.  There  is  my  uncle’s  stock,  on 
which  I believe  I may  say,  confidently,  there  are  no  other 
demands,  and  there  is  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  wish 
to  be  security  too.  I — I hardly  like  to  mention,”  said 
Walter,  “ Such  earnings  as  mine  ; but  if  you  will  allow 
them — accumulate — payment — advance — uncle — frugal, 
honourable  old  man.”  Walter  trailed  off  through  these 


m 


V70KKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


broken  sentences,  into  silence,  and  stood,  with  down- 
cast head,  before  his  employer. 

Considering  this  a favourable  moment  for  the  display 
of  the  valuables,  Captain  Cuttle  advanced  to  the  table  ; 
and  clearing  a space  among  the  breakfast-cups  at  Mr. 
Dombey’s  elbow,  produced  the  silver  watch,  the  ready 
money,  the  teaspoons,  and  the  sugar-tongs  ; and  piling 
them  into  a heap  that  they  might  look  as  precious  as 
possible,  delivered  himself  of  these  words  : 

“ Half  a loafs  better  than  no  bread,  and  the  same  re- 
mark holds  good  with  crumbs.  There’s  a few\  Annuity 
of  one  hundred  pound  prannum  also  ready  to  be  made 
over.  If  there  is  a man  chock  full  of  science  in  the 
world,  if  s old  Sol  Gills.  If  there  is  a lad  of  promise — 
one  flowing, ” added  the  captain,  in  one  of  his  happy 
quotations,  “ with  milk  and  honey — it’s  his  nevy  ! ” 

The  captain  then  withdrew  to  his  former  place,  where 
he  stood  arranging  his  scattered  locks  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  given  the  finishing  touch  to  a difficult  per- 
formance. 

When  Walter  ceased  to  speak,  Mr.  Dombey’s  eyes 
were  attracted  to  little  Paul,  who,  seeing  his  sister  hang- 
ing down  her  head  and  silently  weeping  in  her  commis- 
eration for  the  distress  she  had  heard  described,  went 
over  to  her,  and  tried  to  comfort  her  : looking  at  Walter 
and  his  father  as  he  did  so,  with  a very  expressive  face. 
After  the  momentary  distraction  of  Captain  Cuttle’s 
address,  which  he  regarded  with  lofty  indifference,  Mr. 
Dombey  again  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  son,  and  sat 
steadily  regarding  the  child,  for  some  moments,  in 
silence. 

“ What  was  this  debt  contracted  for?”  asked  Mr. 
Dombey,  at  length.  “ Who  is  the  creditor  ? ” 

“ He  don’t  know,”  replied  the  captain,  putting  his 
hand  on  Walter’s  shoulder.  “ I do.  It  came  of  helping 
a man  that’s  dead  now,  and  that’s  cost  my  friend  Gills 
many  a hundred  pound  already.  More  particulars  in 
private,  if  agreeable.” 

“ People  who  have  enough  to  do  to  hold  their  own 
way,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  unobservant  of  the  captain’s 
mysterious  signs  behind  Walter,  and  still  looking  at  his 
son,  “ had  better  be  content  with  their  own  obligations 
and  difficulties,  and  not  increase  them  by  engaging  for 
other  men.  It  is  an  act  of  dishonesty,  and  presumption 
too,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly  ; “great  presumption  ; for 
the  wealthy  could  do  no  more.  Paul,  come  here  ! ” 

The  child  obeyed  : and  Mr.  Dombey  took  him  on  his 
knee. 

“ If  you  had  money  now — ” said  Mr.  Dombey. 
“ Look  at  me  ! ” 

Paul,  whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  his  sister,  and  to 
Walter,  looked  his  father  in  the  face. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


463 


“ If  you  had  money  now — ” said  Mr.  Dombey;  " as 
much  money  as  young  Gay  bas  talked  about ; what 
would  you  do?’’ 

"Give  it  to  his  old  uncle, ” returned  Paul. 

" Lend  it  to  his  uncle,  eh?”  retorted  Mr.  Dombey. 
‘'Well  ! When  you  are  old  enough,  you  know  you  will 
share  my  money,  and  we  shall  use  it  together.” 

"Dombey  and  Son,”  interrupted  Paul,  who  had  been 
tutored  early  in  the  phrase. 

" Dombey  &nd  Son,”  repeated  his  father.  "Would 
you  like  to  begin  to  be  Dombey  and  Son  now,  and  lend 
this  money  to  young  Gay’s  uncle  ? ” 

"Oh  ! if  you  please  papa  ! ” said  Paul  ; " and  so  would 
Florence.” 

" Girls,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "have  nothing  to  do  with 
Dombey  and  Son.  Would  you  like  it  ? ” 

" Yes,  papa,  yes  \ ” 

" Then  you  shall  do  it,”  returned  his  father.  " And 
you  see,  Paul,”  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  "how 
powerful  money  is,  and  how  anxious  people  are  to  get 
it.  Young  Gay  comes  all  this  way  to  beg  for  money,  and 
you,  who  are  so  grand  and  great,  having  got  it,  are 
going  to  let  him  have  it  as  a great  favour  and  obli- 
gation.” 

Paul  turned  up  the  old  face  for  a moment,  in  which 
there  was  a sharp  understanding  of  the  reference  con- 
veyed in  these  words  : but  it  was  a young  and  childish 
face  immediately  afterwards,  when  he  slipped  down 
from  his  father’s  knee,  and  ran  to  tell  Florence  not  to 
cry  any  more,  for  he  was  going  to  let  young  Gay  have 
the  money. 

Mr.  Dombey  then  turned  to  a side-table,  and  wrote  a 
note  and  sealed  it.  During  the  interval,  Paul  and  Floif. 
enee  whispered  to  Waiter,  and  Captain  Cuttle  beamed  on 
the  three  with  such  aspiring  and  inelf  ably  presumptuous 
thoughts  as  Mr.  Dombey  never  could  have  believed  in. 
The  note  being  finished,  Mr.  Dombey  turned  round  to 
his  former  place,  and  held  it  out  to  Walter. 

"Give  that,”  he  said,  "the  first  thing  to-morrow 
morning,  to  Mr.  Carker.  He  will  immediately  take  care 
that  one  of  my  people  releases  your  uncle  from  his 
present  position,  by  paying  the  amount  at  issue  ; and 
that  such  arrangements  are  made  for  its  repayment  as 
may  be  consistent  with  your  uncle’s  circumstances.  You 
will  consider  that  this  is  done  for  you  by  Master  Paul.” 

Walter,  in  the  emotion  of  holding  in  his  hand  the 
means  of  releasing  his  good  uncle  from  his  trouble,  would 
have^endeavoured  to  express  something  of  his  gratitude 
and  joy.  But  Mr.  Dombey  stopped  him  short. 

"You  will  consider  that  it  is  done,”  he  repeated,  "by 
Master  Paul.  I have  explained  that  to  him,  and  he  un- 
derstands it.  I wish  no  more  to  be  said.” 


464 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


As  lie  motioned  towards  the  door,  Walter  could  only 
bow  his  head  and  retire.  Miss  Tox,  seeing  that  the 
captain  appeared  about  to  do  the  same,  interposed. 

“My  dear  sir,”  she  said,  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  at 
whose  munificence  both  she  and  Mrs.  Chick  were  shed- 
ding tears  copiously  ; “I  think  you  have  overlooked 
something.  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Dombey,  I think  in  the 
nobility  of  your  character,  and  its  exalted  scope,  you 
have  omitted  a matter  of  detail.” 

“ Indeed,  Miss  Tox  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“The  gentleman  with  the Instrument,”  pursued 

Miss  Tox,  glancing  at  Captain  Cuttle,  “has  left  upon  the 
table,  at  your  elbow — ” 

“Good  Heaven!”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sweeping  the 
captain's  property  from  him,  as  if  it  were  so  much 
crumb  indeed.  ‘ ‘ Take  these  things  away.  I am  obliged 
to  you.  Miss  Tox  ; it  is  like  your  usual  discretion.  Have 
the  goodness  to  take  these  things  away,  sir  ! ” 

Captain  Cuttle  felt  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  comply. 
But  he  was  so  much  struck  by  the  magnanimity  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  refusing  treasures  lying  heaped  up  to  his 
hand,  that  when  he  had  deposited  the  teaspoons  and 
sugar-tongs  in  one  pocket,  and  the  ready  money  in 
another,  and  had  lowered  the  great  watch  down  slowly 
into  its  proper  vault,  he  could  not  refrain  from  seizing 
that  gentleman's  right  hand  in  his  own  solitary  left,  and 
while  he  held  it  open  with  his  powerful  fingers,  bring- 
ing the  hook  down  upon  its  palm  in  a transport  of  admi- 
ration. At  this  touch  of  warm  feeling  and  cold  iron,  Mr. 
Dombey  shivered  all  over. 

Captain  Cuttle  then  kissed  his  hook  to  the  ladies 
several  times,  with  great  elegance  and  gallantry  ; and 
having  taken  a particular  leave  of  Paul  and  Florence, 
accompanied  Walter  out  of  the  room.  Florence  was 
running  after  them  in  the  earnestness  of  her  heart,  to 
send  some  message  to  old  Sol,  when  Mr.  Dombey  called 
her  back,  and  bade  her  stay  where  she  was. 

“ Will  you  never  be  a Dombey,  my  dear  child  !”  said 
Mrs.  Chick  with  pathetic  reproachfulness. 

“Dear  aunt,”  said  Florence.  “Don't  be  angry  with 
me.  I am  so  thankful  to  papa  ! ” 

She  would  have  run  and  thrown  her  arms  about  his 
neck  if  she  had  dared  ; but  as  she  did  not  dare,  she 
glanced  with  thankful  eyes  towards  him,  as  he  sat  musing; 
sometimes  bestowing  an  uneasy  glance  on  her,  but  for 
the  most  part,  watching  Paul,  who  walked  about  the 
room  with  the  new-blown  dignity  of  having  let  young 
Gay  have  the  money. 

And  young  Gay — W alter — what  of  him  ? 

He  was  overjoyed  to  purge  the  old  man's  hearth  from 
bailiffs  and  brokers,  and  to  hurry  back  to  his  uncle  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


465 


tlie  good  tidings.  He  was  overjoyed  to  have  it  all  ar- 
ranged and  settled  next  day  before  noon  ; and  to  sit 
down  at  evening  in  the  little  back  parlour  with  Old  Sol 
and  Captain  Cuttle  ; and  to  see  the  Instrument-maker 
already  reviving,  and  hopeful  for  the  future,  and  feeling 
that  the  wooden  midshipman  was  his  own  again.  But 
without  the  least  impeachment  of  his  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Walter  was  humbled 
and  cast  down.  It  is  wrhen  our  budding  hopes  are  nipped 
beyond  recovery  by  some  rough  wind,  that  we  are  the 
most  disposed  to  picture  to  ourselves  what  flowers  they 
might  have  borne,  if  they  had  flourished  ; and  now,  when 
Walter  felt  himself  cut  off  from  that  great  Dombey  height 
by  the  depth  of  a new  and  terrible  tumble,  and  felt  that 
all  his  old  wild  fancies  had  been  scattered  to  the  winds 
in  the  fall,  he  began  to  suspect  that  they  might  have 
led  him  on  to  harmless  visions  of  aspiring  to  Florence  in 
the  remote  distance  of  time. 

The  captain  viewed  the  subject  in  quite  a different 
light.  He  appeared  to  entertain  a belief  that  the  inter- 
view at  which  he  had  assisted  was  so  very  satisfactory 
and  encouraging,  as  to  be  only  a step  or  two  removed 
from  a regular  betrothal  of  Florence  to  Walter  ; and 
that  the  late  transaction  had  immensely  forwarded,  if 
not  thoroughly  established,  the  Whittingtonian  hopes. 
Stimulated  by  this  conviction,  and  by  the  improvement 
in  the  spirits  of  his  old  friend,  and  by  his  own  conse- 
quent gaiety,  he  even  attempted,  in  favouring  them 
with  the  ballad  of  Lovely  Peg”  for  the  third  time 
in  one  evening,  to  make  an  extemporaneous  substitu- 
tion of  the  name  ‘ ‘ Florence  ; ” but  finding  this  difficult, 
on  account  of  the  word  Peg  invariably  rhyming  to 
leg  (in  which  personal  beauty  the  original  was  described 
as  having  excelled  all  competitors),  he  hit  upon  the  happy 
thought  of  changing  it  to  Fie — e — eg  ; which  he  accord- 
ingly did,  with  an  archness  almost  supernatural,  and  a 
voice  quite  vociferous,  notwithstanding  that  the  time  was 
close  at  hand  when  he  must  seek  the  abode  of  the 
dreadful  Mrs.  MacStinger. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Paul's  Introduction  to  a New  Scene . 

Mrs.  Pipchin’s  constitution  was  made  of  such  hard 
metal,  in  spite  of  its  liability  to  the  fleshly  weaknesses  of 
standing  in  need  of  repose  after  chops,  and  of  requiring 
to  be  coaxed  to  sleep  by  the  soporific  agency  of  sweet- 
breads, that  it  utterly  set  at  nought  the  predictions  of 


466 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mrs.  Wickam,  and  showed  no  symptoms  of  decline. 
Yet,  as  Paul’s  rapt  interest  in  the  old  lady  continued  un- 
abated, Mrs.  Wickam  would  not  budge  an  inch  from  the 
position  she  had  taken  up.  Fortifying  and  entrenching 
herself  on  the  strong  ground  of  her  uncle’s  Betsey  Jane, 
she  advised  Miss  Berry,  as  a friend,  to  prepare  herself 
for  the  worst  ; and  forewarned  her  that  her  aunt  might, 
ht  any  time,  be  expected  to  go  off  suddenly,  like  a pow- 
der-mill. 

Poor  Berry  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  drudged  and 
Slaved  away  as  usual  ; perfectly  convinced  that  Mrs. 
Pipchin  was  one  of  the  most  meritorious  persons  in  the 
World,  and  making  every  day  innumerable  sacrifices  of 
herself  upon  the  altar  of  that  noble  old  woman.  But  all 
these  immolations  of  Berry  were  somehow  carried  to 
the  credit  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  by  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  friends 
and  admirers  ; and  were  made  to  harmonise  with,  and 
carry  out,  that  melancholy  fact  of  the  deceased  Mr. 
Pipchin  having  broken  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

For  example,  there  was  an  honest  grocer  and  general 
dealer  in  the  retail  line  of  business,  between  whom  and 
Mrs.  Pipchin  there  was  a small  memorandum  book,  with 
a greasy  red  cover,  perpetually  in  question,  and  concern- 
ing which  divers  secret  councils  and  conferences  were 
continually  being  held  between  the  parties  to  the  regis- 
ter, on  the  mat  in  the  passage,  and  with  closed  doors  in 
the  parlour.  Nor  were  there  wanting  dark  hints  from 
Master  Bitherstone  (whose  temper  had  been  made  re- 
vengeful by  the  solar  heats  of  India  acting  on  his  blood), 
of  balances  unsettled,  and  of  a failure,  on  one  occasion 
within  his  memory,  in  the  supply  of  moist  sugar  at  tea- 
time.  This  grocer  being  a bachelor,  and  not  a man  who 
looked  upon  the  surface  for  beauty,  had  once  made  hon- 
ourable offers  for  the  hand  of  Berry,  which  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had  wdth  contumely  and  scorn,  rejected.  Everybody 
said  how  laudable  this  was  in  Mrs.  Pipchin,  relict  of  a 
man  who  had  died  of  the  Peruvian  mines ; and  what  a 
staunch,  high,  independent  spirit,  the  old  lady  had. 
But  nobody  said  anything  about  poor  Berry,  who  cried 
for  six  weeks  (being  soundly  rated  by  her  good  aunt  all 
the  time),  and  lapsed  into  a state  of  hopeless  spinster- 
hood. 

“Berry’s  very  fond  of  you,  ain’t  she?”  Paul  once 
asked  Mrs.  Pipchin  when  they  were  sitting  by  the  fire 
with  the  cat. 

44  Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

44  Why  ?”  asked  Paul. 

44  Why  ! ” returned  the  disconcerted  old  lady.  4 4 How 
can  you  ask  such  things,  sir  ! why  are  you  fond  of  your 
sister  Florence  ? ” 

44  Because  she's  very  good,”  said  Paul.  44  There’s  no- 
body like  Florence.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


467 


**  Well !”  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shortly,  “ and  there’s 
nobody  like  me,  I suppose/’ 

“ Ain’t  there  really  though?”  asked  Paul  leaning  for- 
ward in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  her  very  hard. 

“No,”  said  the  old  lady. 

“ I am  glad  of  that,”  observed  Paul,  rubbing  his 
hands  thoughtfully.  “ That’s  a very  good  thing.” 

Mrs.  Pipchin  didn’t  dare  to  ask  him  why,  lest  she 
should  receive  some  perfectly  annihilating  answer.  But 
as  a compensation  to  her  wounded  feelings,  she  harassed 
Master  Bitherstone  to  that  extent  until  bed-time,  that  he 
began  that  very  night  to  make  arrangements  for  an  over- 
land return  to  India,  by  secreting  from  his  supper  a 
quarter  of  a round  of  bread  and  a fragment  of  moist 
Dutch  cheese,  as  the  beginning  of  a stock  of  provision 
to  support  him  on  the  voyage. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  had  kept  watch  and  ward  over  little  Paul 
and  his  sister  for  nearly  twelve  months.  They  had  been 
home  twice,  but  only  for  a few  days  ; and  had  been  con- 
stant in  their  weekly  visits  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  hotel. 
By  little  and  little  Paul  had  grown  stronger,  and  had  be- 
come able  to  dispense  with  his  carriage ; though  he  still 
looked  thin  and  delicate  ; and  still  remained  the  same 
old,  quiet,  dreamy  child,  that  he  had  been  when  first 
consigned  to  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  care.  One  Saturday  after- 
noon, at  dusk,  great  consternation  was  occasioned  in  the 
castle  by  the  unlooked-for  announcement  of  Mr.  Dombey 
as  a visitor  to  Mrs.  Pipchin.  The  population  of  the  par- 
lour was  immediately  swept  up-stairs  as  on  the  wings 
of  a whirlwind,  and  after  much  slamming  of  bedroom 
doors,  and  trampling  overhead,  and  some  knocking  about 
of  Master  Bitherstone  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  as  a relief  to  the 
perturbation  of  her  spirits,  the  black  bombazeen  gar- 
ments of  the  worthy  old  lady  darkened  the  audience- 
chamber  where  Mr.  Dombey  was  contemplating  the  va- 
cant arm-chair  of  his  son  and  heir. 

“Mrs.  Pipchin,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “How  do  you 
do?” 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  “I  am  pretty 
well,  considering.” 

Mrs.  Pipchin  always  used  that  form  of  words.  It 
meant,  considering  her  virtues,  sacrifices,  and  so 
forth. 

“ I Can’t  expect,  sir,  to  be  very  well,”  said  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, taking  a chair,  and  fetching  her  breath ; “ but 
such  health  as  I have,  I am  grateful  for.” 

Mr.  Dombey  inclined  his  head  with  the  satisfied  air 
of  a patron,  who  felt  that  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  for 
which  he  paid  so  much  a quarter.  After  a moment’s 
silence  he  went  on  to  say  : 

“ Mrs.  Pipchin,  I have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling,  to 


468 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


consult  you  In  reference  to  my  son.  I have  had  it  in 
my  mind  to  do  so  for  some  time  past ; but  have  deferred 
it  from  time  to  time,  in  order  that  his  health  might 
be  thoroughly  re-established.  You  have  no  misgivings 
on  that  subject,  Mrs.  Pipchin?” 

“ Brighton  has  proved  very  beneficial,  sir,”  returned 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  “ Very  beneficial,  indeed.” 

“ I purpose,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “his  remaining  at 
Brighton.” 

Mrs.  Pipchin  rubbed  her  hands,  and  bent  her  gray 
eyes  on  the  fire. 

“But,”  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  stretching  out  his  fore- 
finger, “but  possibly  that  he  should  now  make  a change, 
and  lead  a different  kind  of  life  here.  In  short,  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  that  is  the  object  of  my  visit.  My  son  is  get- 
tingon,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Really,  he  is  getting  on.” 

There  was  something  melancholy  in  the  triumphant  air 
with  which  Mr.  Dombey  said  this.  It  showed  how  long 
Paul's  childish  life  had  been  to  him,  and  how  his  hope?) 
were  set  upon  a later  stage  of  his  existence.  Pity  may 
appear  a strange  word  to  connect  with  any  one  so  haugh- 
ty and  so  cold,  and  yet  he  seemed  a worthy  subject  for  it 
at  that  moment. 

“ Six  years  old  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neck 
cloth — perhaps  to  hide  an  irrepressible  smile  that  rather 
seemed  to  strike  upon  the  surface  of  his  face  and  glance 
away,  as  finding  no  resting  place,  than  to  play  there  for 
an  instant.  “ Dear  me,  six  will  be  changed  "to  sixteen, 
before  we  have  time  to  look  about  us.” 

“Ten  years,”  croaked  the  unsympathetic  Pipchin, 
with  a frosty  glistening  of  her  hard  gray  eye,  and  a 
dreary  shaking  of  her  bent  head,  “ is  a long  time.” 

“ It  depends  on  circumstances,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey 
“ at  all  events,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  son  is  six  years  old, 
and  there  is  no  doubt,  I fear,  that  in  his  studies  he  is 
behind  many  children  of  his  age — or  his  youth,”  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  quickly  answering  what  he  mistrusted  was  a 
shrewd  twinkle  of  the  frosty  eye,  “ his  youth  is  a more 
appropriate  expression.  Nov/,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  instead  of 
being  behind  his  peers,  my  son  ought  to  be  before  them  , 
far  before  them.  There  is  an  eminence  ready  for  him 
to  mount  upon.  There  is  nothing  of  chance  or  doubt  in 
the  course  before  my  son.  His  way  in  life  was  clear  and 
prepared,  and  marked  out,  before  he  existed.  The  edu- 
cation of  such  a young  gentleman  must  not  be  delayed. 
It  must  not  be  left  imperfect.  It  must  be  very  steadily 
and  seriously  undertaken,  Mrs.  Pipchin.” 

“ Well,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  “ I can  say  nothing  to 
the  contrary.” 

“ I was  quite  sure,  Mrs.  Pipchin,”  returned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, approvingly,  “that  a person  of  your  good  sense 
could  not,  and  would  not.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


“ There  is  a great  deal  of  nonsense — and  worse- 
talked  about  young  people  not  being  pressed  too  bard  at 
first,  and  being  tempted  on,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  sir,” 
said  Mrs.  Pipcbin,  impatiently  rubbing*  her  booked  nose. 
* It  never  was  thought  of  in  my  time,  and  it  has  no 
business  to  be  thought  of  now.  My  opinion  is  ‘ keep 
em  at  it.s  ” 

u My  good  madam,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  “ you  have 
not  acquired  your  reputation  undeservedly  ; and  I beg 
you  to  believe,  Mrs.  Pipcbin,  that  1 am  more  than  satis- 
fied with  your  excellent  system  of  management,  and 
shall  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  commending  it  when- 
ever my  poor  commendation  ” — Mr.  Dombey’ s loftiness 
when  he  affected  to  disparage  his  own  importance, 
passed  all  bounds — “ can  be  of  any  service.  I have  been 
thinking  of  Doctor  Blimber’s,  Mrs.  Pipchin.  ” 

“ My  neighbour,  sir?”  said  Mrs,  Pipchin,  M believe 
the  doctor's  is  an  excellent  establishment.  Pve  heard 
that  it's  very  strictly  conducted,  and  that  there’s  nothing 
but  learning  going  on  from  morning  to  night.  ” 

' And  it’s  very  expensive,”  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ And  it’s  very  expensive,  sir,”  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin 
catching  at  the  fact,  as  if  in  omitting  that,  she  had 
omitted  one  of  its  leading  merits. 

‘ ‘ I have  had  some  communication  with  the  doctor, 
Mrs.  Pipchin,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  hitching  his  chair 
anxiously  a little  nearer  to  the  fire,  ‘‘  and  he  does  not 
consider  Paul  at  all  too  young  for  lus  purpose.  He  men  - 
tioned several  instances  of  boys  in  Greek  at  about  the 
same  age.  If  I have  any  little  uneasiness  in  my  own 
mind,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  on  the  subject  of  this  change,  it  is 
not  on  that  head.  My  son  not  having  known  a mother 
has  gradually  concentrated  much — too  much — of  his 
childish  affection  on  his  sister.  Whether  their  separa- 
tion— ” Mr.  Dombey  said  no  more,  but  sat  silent. 

Hoity-toity  \”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  out 
her  black  bombazeen  skirts,  and  plucking  up  all  the 
ogress  within  her.  “ If  she  don’t  like  it,  Mr.  Dombey - 
she  must  be  taught  to  lump  it.”  The  good  lady  apoio 
gised  immediately  afterwards  for  using  so  common  a 
figure  of  speech,  but  said  (and  truly)  that  that  was  the 
way  she  reasoned  with  ’em. 

Mr.  Dombey  waited  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  done 
bridling  and  shaking  her  head,  and  frowning  down  a 
legion  of  Bitherstones  and  Pankeys  ; and  then  said 
quietly,  but  correctively,  “ He,  my  good  madam,  he.” 

Mrs.  Pipchin’s  system  would  have  applied  very  much 
the  same  mode  of  cure  to  any  uneasiness  on  the  part  ot 
Paul,  too  ; but  as  the  hard  gray  eye  was  sharp  enough 
to  see  that  the  recipe,  however  Mr.  Dombey  might  admit 
\ts  efficacy  in  the  case  of  the  daughter,  was  not  a sov* 


m 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ereign  remedy  for  the  son,  she  argued  the  point  : and 
contended  that  change,  and  new  society,  and  the  differ- 
ent form  of  life  he  would  lead  at  Doctor  Blimber’s,  and 
the  studies  he  would  have  to  master,  would  very  soon 
prove  sufficient  alienations.  As  this  chimed  in  with  Mr. 
Dombey’s  own  hope  and  belief,  it  gave  that  gentleman  a 
still  higher  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  understanding  ; 
and  as  Mrs.  Pipchin,  at  the  same  time,  bewailed  the  loss 
of  her  dear  little  friend  (which  was  not  an  overwhelming 
shock  to  her,  as  she  had  long  expected  it,  and  had  not 
looked,  in  the  beginning,  for  his  remaining  with  her 
longer  than  three  months),  he  formed  an  equally  good 
opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipehin’s  disinterestedness.  It  was  plain 
that  he  had  given  the  subject  anxious  consideration,  for 
he  had  formed  a plan,  which  he  announced  to  the  ogress, 
of  sending  Paul  to  the  doctor’s  as  a weekly  boarder  for 
the  first  half  year,  during  which  time  Florence  would 
remain  at  the  castle,  that  she  might  receive  her  brother 
there,  on  Saturdays.  This  would  wean  him  by  degrees, 
Mr.  Bom  bey  said:  probably  with  a recollection  of  his 
not  having  been  weaned  by  degrees  on  a former  occa- 
sion. 

Mr.  Bombey  finished  the  interview  by  expressing  his 
hope  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  -would  still  remain  in  office  as 
general  superintendent  and  overseer  of  her  son,  pending 
his  studies  at  Brighton  ; and  having  kissed  Paul,  and 
shaken  hands  with  Florence,  and  beheld  Master  Either* 
stone  in  his  collar  of  state,  and  made  Miss  Pankey  cry 
by  patting  her  on  the  head  (in  which  region  she  was  un- 
commonly tender,  on  account  of  a habit  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had  of  sounding  it  with  her  knuckles,  like  a cask),  ho 
withdrew  to  his  hotel  and  dinner  : resolved  that  Paul, 
now  that  he  was  getting  so  old  and  wrell,  should  begin  a 
vigorous  course  of  education  forthwith,  to  qualify  him 
for  the  position  in  which  he  was  to  shine  ; and  that  Doc- 
tor Blimber  should  take  him  in  hand  immediately. 

Whenever  a young  gentleman  was  taken  in  hand  by 
Doctor  Blimber,  he  might  consider  himself  sure  of  a 
pretty  tight  squeeze.  The  doctor  only  undertook  the 
charge  of  ten  young  gentlemen,  hut  he  had,  always 
ready,  a supply  of  learning  for  a hundred,  on  the  lowest 
estimate  ; and  it  was  at  once  the  business  and  delight 
of  liis  life  to  gorge  the  unhappy  ten  with  it. 

In  fact.  Doctor  Blimber’s  establishment  was  a great 
hot-house,  in  which  there  was  a forcing  apparatus  inces- 
santly at  work.  All  the  boys  blew  before  their  time 
Mental  green-peas  were  produced  at  Christmas,  and  in 
tellectual  asparagus  all  the  year  round.  Mathematical 
gooseberries  (very  sour  ones  too)  were  common  at  un 
timely  seasons,  and  from  mere  sprouts  of  bushes,  under 
Doctor  Blimber’ s cultivation.  Every  description  of 


DGMBEY  AND  SON. 


471 


Greek  and  Latin  vegetable  was  got  off  the  driest  twigs 
of  boys,  under  the  frostiest  circumstances.  Nature  was 
of  no  consequence  at  all.  No  matter  wbat  a yourg  gen, 
tleman  was  intended  to  bear.  Doctor  Blimber  made  him 
bear  to  pattern,  somehow  or  other. 

This  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but  the  sys- 
tem of  forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual  disadvan- 
tages. There  was  not  the  right  taste  about  the  prema- 
ture productions,  and  they  didn’t  keep  well.  Moreover^ 
one  young  gentleman,  with  a swollen  nose  and  an  exces- 
sively large  head  (the  oldest  of  the  ten  who  had  “ gone 
through”  everything),  suddenly  left  off  blowing  one 
day,  and  remained  in  the  establishment  a mere  stalk. 
And  people  did  say  that  the  doctor  had  rather  overdone 
it  with  young  Toots,  and  that  when  he  began  to  have 
whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 

There  young  Toots  was,  at  any  rate  ; possessed  of  the 
gruffest  of  voices  and  the  shrillest  of  minds  ; sticking 
ornamental  pins  into  his  shirt,  and  keeping  a ring  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket  to  put  on  his  little  finger  by  stealth, 
when  the  pupils  went  out  walking  ; constantly  falling 
in  love  by  sight  with  nurserymaids,  who  had  no  idea  of 
his  existence  , and  looking  at  the  gas-lighted  world  over 
the  little  iron  bars  in  the  left-hand  corner  window  of  the 
front  three  pairs  of  stairs,  after  bed-  time,  like  a greatly 
overgrown  cherub  who  had  sat  up  aloft  much  too  long. 

The  doctor  was  a portly  gentleman  in  a suit  of  black, 
with  strings  at  his  knees,  and  stockings  below  them. 
He  had  a bald  head,  highly  polished  ; a deep  voice  ; and 
a chin  so  very  double,  that  it  was  a wonder  how  he 
managed  to  shave  into  the  creases.  He  had  likewise  a 
pair  of  jfi'ttre  eyes  that  were  always  half  shut  up,  and  a 
iuouth  that  was  always  half  expanded  into  a grin,  as  if 
he  had,  that  moment,  posed  a boy,  and  were  waiting  to 
convict  him  from  his  own  lips.  Insomuch,  that  when 
the  doctor  put  his  right  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
and  with  his  other  hand  behind  him,  and  a scarcely  per- 
ceptible wag  of  his  head,  made  the  commonest  observa- 
tion to  a nervous  stranger,  it  was  like  a sentiment  from 
the  sphynx,  and  settled  his  business. 

The  doctor’s  was  a mighty  fine  house,  fronting  the 
sea.  Not  a joyful  style  of  house  within,  but  quite  the 
contrary.  Sad-coloured  curtains,  whose  proportions 
were  spare  and  lean,  hid  themselves  despondently  behind 
the  windows.  The  tables  and  chairs  were  put  away  in 
rows,  like  figures  in  a sum  : fires  were  so  rarely  lighted 
in  the  rooms  of  ceremony,  that  they  felt  like  wells,  and 
a visitor  represented  the  bucket  ; the  dining-room 
seemed  the  last  place  in  the  world  where  any  eating  01 
drinking  was  likely  to  occur  ; there  was  no  sound 
through  all  the  house  but  the  ticking  of  a great  clock  in 


472 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tlie  hall,  which  made  itself  audible  in  the  very  garrets  ; 
and  sometimes  a dull  cryingof  young  gentlemen  at  their 
lessons,  like  the  murmurings  of  an  assemblage  of  mel- 
ancholy pigeons. 

Miss  Blimber,  too,  although  a slim  and  graceful  maid, 
did  no  soft  violence  to  the  gravity  of  the  house.  There 
was  no  light  nonsense  about  Miss  Blimber.  She  kept 
her  hair  short  and  crisp,  and  wore  spectacles.  She  was 
dry  and  sandy  with  working  in  the  graves  of  deceased 
Janguages.  None  of  your  live  languages  for  Miss  Blim- 
ber. They  must  be  dead — stone  dead — and  then  Miss 
Blimber  dug  them  up  like  a Ghoul. 

Mrs.  Blimber,  her  mamma,  was  not  learned  herself, 
but  she  pretended  to  be,  and  that  did  quite  as  well.  She 
said  at  evening  parties,  that  if  she  could  have  known 
Cicero,  she  thought  she  could  have  died  contented.  It 
was  the  steady  joy  of  her  life  to  see  the  doctor’s  young 
gentlemen  go  out  walking,  unlike  all  other  young  gen- 
tlemen, in  the  largest  possible  shirt-collars  and  the  stiff- 
est  possible  cravats.  It  was  so  classical,  she  said. 

As  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  Doctor  Blimber’s  assistant,  he 
was  a kind  of  human  barrel-organ  with  a little  list  of 
tunes  at  which  he  was  continually  working,  over  and 
over  again,  without  any  variation.  He  might  have  been 
fitted  up  with  a change  of  barrels,  perhaps,  in  early  life, 
if  his  destiny  had  been  favourable  ; but  it  had  not  been  ; 
and  he  had  only  one,  with  which,  in  a monotonous  round, 
it  was  his  occupation  to  bewilder  the  young  ideas  of 
Doctor  Blimber’ s young  gentlemen.  The  young  gentle- 
men were  prematurely  full  of  carking  anxieties.  They 
knew  no  rest  from  the  pursuit  of  stony-hearted  verbs, 
savage  noun-substantives,  inflexible  syntactic  passages, 
and  ghosts  of  exercises  that  appeared  to  them  in  their 
dreams.  Under  the  forcing  system,  a young  gentleman 
usually  took  leave  of  his  spirits  in  three  weeks.  He  had 
all  the  cares  of  the  world  on  his  head  in  three  months. 
He  conceived  bitter  sentiments  against  his  parents  or 
guardians  in  four ; he  was  an  old  misanthrope,  in  five ; 
envied  Curtius  that  blessed  refuge  in  the  earth,  in  six  ; 
and  at  the  end  of  the  first  twelvemonth  had  arrived  at 
the  conclusion,  from  which  he  never  afterwards  de- 
parted, that  all  the  fancies  of  the  poets,  and  lessons  of 
the  sages,  were  a mere  collection  of  words  and  grammar, 
and  had  no  other  meaning  in  the  world. 

But  he  went  on,  blow,  blow,  blowing,  in  the  doctor’s 
hot-house,  all  the  time  ; and  the  doctor’s  glory  and  rep- 
utation were  great,  when  he  took  his  wintry  growth 
home  to  his  relations  and  friends. 

Upon  the  doctor’s  door-steps  one  day,  Paul  stood  with 
a fluttering  heart,  and  with  his  small  right  hand  in  his 
father’s.  His  other  hand  was  locked  in  that  of  Florence. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


473 


How  tight  the  tiny  pressure  of  that  one  ; and  how  loose 
and  cold  the  <*ther  ! 

Mrs.  Pipchin  hovered  behind  the  victim,  with  her  sable 
plumage  and  her  hooked  beak,  like  a bird  of  ill-omen. 
She  was  out  of  breath — for  Mr.  Dombey,  full  of  great 
thoughts,  had  walked  fast — and  she  croaked  hoarsely  as 
she  waited  for  the  opening  of  the  door. 

“ Now,  Paul/'  said  Mr.  Dombey  exultingly.  “This  is 
the  way  indeed  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  and  have  money, 
You  are  almost  a man  already.  ” 

“ Almost,”  returned  the  child. 

Even  his  childish  agitation  could  not  master  the  sly 
and  quaint  yet  touching  look,  with  which  he  accom- 
panied the  reply. 

It  brought  a vague  expression  of  dissatisfaction  into 
Mr.  Dombey’s  face  ; but  the  door  being  opened,  it  was 
quickly  gone. 

“ Doctor  Blimber  is  at  home,  I believe  ? ” said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

The  man  said  yes  ; and  as  they  passed  in,  looked  at 
Paul  as  if  he  were  a little  mouse,  and  the  house  were  a 
trap.  He  was  a weak-eyed  young  man,  with  the  firs{ 
faint  streaks  or  early  dawn  of  a grin  on  his  countenance. 
It  was  mere  imbecility  ; but  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  it  into 
her  head  that  it  was  impudence,  and  made  a snap  at  him 
directly. 

“How  dare  you  laugh  behind  the  gentleman’s  back?” 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin.  “ And  what  do  you  take  me  for  ? ” 

“ I ain’t  a laughing  at  nobody,  and  I am  sure  I don’}; 
take  you  for  nothing,  ma’am,”  returned  the  young  man, 
in  consternation. 

“ A pack  of  idle  dogs  ! ” said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  “ only  fit 
to  be  turnspits.  Go  and  tell  your  master  that  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s  here,  or  it’ll  be  worse  for  you  ! ” 

The  weak-eyed  young  man  went,  very  meekly,  to  dis- 
charge  himslf  of  this  commission  ; and  soon  came  bacl^ 
to  invite  them  to  the  doctor’s  study. 

“You’re  laughing  again,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  when 
it  came  to  her  turn,  bringing  up  the  rear,  to  pass  him  ip 
the  hall. 

“I  ain’t,”  returned  the  young  man,  grievously  op- 
pressed. ‘ ‘ I never  see  such  a thing  as  this  ! ” 

“What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Pipchin?”  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, looking  round.  ‘ ‘ Softly  ! Pray  ! ” 

Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  deference,  merely  muttered  at 
the  young  man  as  he  passed  on,  and  said  “ Oh,  he  was 
a precious  fellow” — leaving  the  young  man,  who  was 
all  meekness  and  incapacity,  affected  even  to  tears  by 
the  incident.  But  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  a way  of  falling 
foul  of  all  meek  people  ; and  her  friends  said  who  could 
wonder  at  it,  after  the  Peruvian  mines  ! 


' 474 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  doctor  was  sitting  in  his  portentous  istudy,  with  a 
globe  at  each  knee,  books  all  round  him*  Jffomer  over 
the  door,  and  Minerva  on  the  mantel-shelf.  “ And  how 
do  you  do,  sir,”  he  said  to  Mr.  Dombey,  “ ai:d  how  is 
my  little  friend?”  Grave  as  an  organ  wras  the  doctor's 
speech  ; and  when  he  ceased,  the  great  clock  in  the  hall 
seemed  (to  Paul  at  least)  to  take  him  up,  and  to  go  on 
saying,  “how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit, 
tie,  friend,”  over  and  over  and  over  again. 

The  little  friend  being  something  too  small  to  be  seen 
at  all  from  where  the  doctor  sat,  over  the  books  on  his 
table,  the  doctor  made  several  futile  attempts  to  get  a 
view  of  him  round  the  legs  ; which  Mr.  Dombey  per- 
ceiving, relieved  the  doctor  from  his  embarrassment  by 
taking  Paul  up  in  his  arms,  and  sitting  him  on  another 
little  table,  over  against  the  doctor,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

“ Ha  ! ” said  the  doctor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  hand  in  his  breast.  “ Now  I see  my  little  friend. 
How  do  you  do,  my  little  friend  ? ” 

The  clock  in  the  hall  wouldn't  subscribe  to  this  altera- 
tion in  the  form  of  words,  but  continued  to  repeat  “ how, 
is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  ! ” 

“Very  well,  1 thank  you,  sir,”  returned  Paul,  answer- 
ing the  clock  quite  as  much  as  the  doctor. 

“Ha  l”  said  Dr.  Blimber.  “ Shall  we  make  a man  of 
him  ? ” 

“Do  you  hear,  Paul?”  said  Mr.  Dombev  ; Paul  being 
silent. 

“ Shall  we  make  a man  of  him  ? ” repeated  the  doctor. 

“ I had  rather  be  a child,”  replied  Paul. 

“ Indeed  ! ” said  the  doctor.  “ Why?” 

The  child  sat  on  the  table  looking  at  him,  with  a curi- 
ous expression  of  suppressed  emotion  in  his  face,  and 
beating  one  hand  proudly  on  his  knee  as  if  he  had  the 
rising  tears  beneath  it,  and  crushed  them.  But  his 
other  hand  strayed  a little  way  the  while,  a little  farther 
— farther  from  him  yet — until  it  lighted  on  the  neck  of 
Florence.  “This  is  why,”  it  seemed  to  say,  and  then 
the  steady  look  was  broken  up  and  gone  ; the  work- 
ing lip  was  loosened ; and  the  tears  came  streaming 
forth. 

“Mrs.  Pipchin,”  said  his  father,  in  a querulous  man- 
lier, “I  am  really  very  sorry  to  see  this.” 

“ Come  away  from  him,  do,  Miss  Dombey,”  quoth  the 
matron. 

“Never  mind,”  said  the  doctor,  blandly  nodding  his 
head,  to  keep  Mrs.  Pipchin  back.  “ Ne-ver  mind  ; we 
shall  substitute  new  cares  and  new  impressions,  Mr. 
Dombey,  very  shortly.  You  would  still  wish  my  little 
friend  to  acquire — ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


475 


“ Every  tiling,  if  you  please,  doctor,”  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  firmly. 

“ Yes/’  said  tlie  doctor,  who,  with  his  half-shut  eyes, 
and  his  usual  smile,  seemed  to  survey  Paul  with  the  sort 
of  interest  that  might  attach  to  some  choice  little  animal 
he  was  going  to  stuff.  “ Yes,  exactly.  Ha  ! We  shall 
impart  a great  variety  of  information  to  our  little  friend, 
and  bring  him  quickly  forward,  I dare  say.  I dare  say. 
Quite  a virgin  soil,  I believe  you  said,  Mr.  D ombey?” 

“ Except  some  ordinary  preparation  at  home,  and  from 
this  lady,”  replied  Mr.  Dombey,  introducing  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  who  instantly  communicated  a rigidity  to  her  whole 
muscular  system,  and  snorted  defiance  beforehand,  in 
case  the  doctor  should  disparage  her  ; “ except  so  far, 
Paul  has,  as  yet,  applied  himself  to  no  studies  at  all.  ” 

Doctor  Blimber  inclined  his  head,  in  gentle  tolerance 
of  such  insignificant  poaching  as  Mrs.  Pipchin’s,  and  said 
he  was  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  much  more  satisfactory, 
he  observed,  rubbing  his  hands,  to  begin  at  the  founda- 
tion. And  again  he  leered  at  Paul,  as  if  he  would  have 
liked  to  tackle  him  with  the  Greek  alphabet  on  the 
spot. 

“ That  circumstance,  indeed.  Doctor  Blimber,”  pur- 
sued Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  at  his  little  son,  “ and  the 
interview  I have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  holding 
with  you,  renders  any  further  explanation,  and  conse- 
quently, any  further  intrusion  on  your  valuable  time, 
so  unnecessary,  that — ” 

“ Now,  Miss  Dombey  ! ” said  the  acid  Pipchin. 

“ Permit  me,”  said  the  doctor,  <c  one  moment.  Allow 
me  to  present  Mrs.  Blimber  and  my  daughter,  who  will 
be  associated  with  the  domestic  life  of  our  young  Pil- 
grim to  Parnassus.  Mrs.  Blimber,”  for  the  lady,  who 
had  perhaps  been  in  waiting,  opportunely  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  her  daughter,  that  fair  sexton  in  spectacles, 
“Mr.  Dombey.  My  daughter  Cornelia,  Mr.  Dombey. 
Mr.  Dombey,  my  love,”  pursued  the  doctor,  turning  to 
his  wife,  “is  so  confiding  as  to — do  you  see  our  little 
friend?” 

Mrs.  Blimber,  in  an  excess  of  politeness,  of  which  Mr. 
Dombey  was  the  object,  apparently  did  not,  for  she  was 
backing  against  the  little  friend,  and  very  much  endan- 
gering his  position  on  the  table.  But,  on  this  hint,  she 
turned  to  admire  his  classical  and  intellectual  linea- 
ments, and  turning  again  to  Mr.  Dombey,  said,  with  a 
sigh,  that  she  envied  his  dear  son.  , 

“ Like  a bee,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  uplifted 
eyes,“  about  to  plunge  into  a garden  of  the  choicest  flow- 
ers, and  sip  the  sweets  for  the  first  time.  Virgil,  Horace, 
Ovid,  Terence,  Plautus,  Cicero.  What  a world  of  honey 


476 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


have  we  here.  It  may  appear  remarkable,  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  one  who  is  a wife — the  wife  of  such  a husband — ” 

“ Hush,  hush,”  said  Doctor  Blimber.  “ Fie  for  shame.” 

“ Mr.  Dombey  will  forgive  the  partiality  of  a wife,” 
said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  an  engaging  smile. 

Mr.  Dombey  answered  “ Not  at  all applying  those 
words,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  to  the  partiality,  and  not  to 
the  forgiveness. 

“ — And  it  may  seem  remarkable  in  one  who  is  a moth- 
er also,  ” resumed  Mrs.  Blimber. 

“ And  such  a mother,”  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  bowing 
with  some  confused  idea  of  being  complimentary  to  Cor- 
nelia. 

“ But  really,”  pursued  Mrs.  Blimber,  “ I think  if  I 
could  have  known  Cicero,  and  been  his  friend,  and  talked 
with  him  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum  (beau-ti-ful  Tus- 
culum  !),  I could  have  died  contented.” 

A learned  enthusiam  is  so  very  contagious,  that  Mr. 
Dombey  half  believed  this  was  exactly  his  case  ; and 
even  Mrs.  Pipcliin,  who  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  of 
any  accommodating  disposition,  generally,  gave  utter- 
ance to  a little  sound  between  a groan  and  a sigh,  as  if 
she  would  have  said  that  nobody  but  Cicero  could  have 
proved  a lasting  consolation  under  that  failure  of  the 
Peruvian  Mines,  but  that  he  indeed  would  have  been 
a very  Davy-lamp  of  refuge. 

Cornelia  looked  at  Mr.  Dombey  through  her  spectacles, 
as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  crack  a few  quotations  with 
him  from  the  authority  in  question.  But  this  design, 
if  she  entertained  it,  was  frustrated  by  a knock  at  the 
room- door. 

“ Who  is  that?”  said  the  doctor.  “ Oh  ! Come  in. 
Toots ; come  in.  Mr.  Dombey,  sir,”  Toots  bowed. 
“ Quite  a coincidence  !”  said  Doctor  Blimber.  “ Here 
we  have  the  beginning  and  the  end.  Alpha  and  Omega. 
Our  head  boy,  Mr.  Dombey.” 

The  doctor  might  have  called  him  their  head  and 
shoulders  boy,  for  he  was  at  least  that  much  taller  than 
any  of  the  rest.  He  blushed  very  much  at  finding  him- 
self among  strangers,  and  chuckled  aloud. 

“ An  addition  to  our  little  Portico,  Toots,”  said  the 
doctor  ; “ Mr.  Dombey’s  son.” 

Young  Toots  blushed  again  ; and  finding,  from  a sol- 
emn silence  which  prevailed,  that  he  was  expected  to 
say  something,  said  to  Paul,  “How  are  you?”  in  a voice 
so  deep,  and  a manner  so  sheepish,  that  if  a lamb  had 
roared  it  couldn’t  have  been  more  surprising. 

“ Ask  Mr.  Feeder,  if  you  please,  Toots,”  said  the  doc- 
tor, “to  prepare  a few  introductory  volumes  for  Mr. 
Dombey’s  son,  and  to  allot  him  a convenient  seat  for 
study.  My  dear,  I believe  Mr.  Dombey  has  not  seen  the 
dormitories.  ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


477 


“ If  Mr.  Dombey  will  walk  up-stairs,”  said  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  “ I shall  be  more  than  proud  to  show  him  the  do- 
minions of  tbe  drowsy  god.” 

With  that,  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  was  a lady  of  great  su- 
avity, and  a wiry  figure,  and  who  wore  a cap  composed 
of  sky-blue  materials,  proceeded  up-stairs  with  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  and  Cornelia ; Mrs.  Pipcliin  following,  and  looking 
out  sharp  for  her  enemy  the  footman. 

While  they  were  gone,  Paul  sat  upon  the  table  hold- 
ing Florence  by  the  hand,  and  glancing  timidly  from 
the  doctor  round  and  round  the  room,  while  the  doctor, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hand  in  his  breast  as 
usual,  held  a book  from  him  at  arm’s  length,  and  read. 
There  was  something  very  awful  in  this  manner  of  read- 
ing. It  was  such  a determined,  unimpassioned,  inflexi- 
ble, cold-blooded  way  of  going  to  work.  It  left  the 
doctor’s  countenance  exposed  to  view  ; and  when  the 
doctor  smiled  auspiciously  at  his  author,  or  knit  his 
brows,  or  shook  his  head  or  made  wry  faces  at  him  as 
much  as  to  say,  “ Don’t  tell  me,  sir.  I know  better,”  it 
was  terrific. 

Toots,  too,  had  no  business  to  be  outside  the  door,  os- 
tentatiously examining  the  wheels  in  his  watch,  and 
counting  his  half-crowns.  But  that  didn’t  last  long  ; 
for  Dr.  Blimber,  happening  to  change  the  position  of  his 
tight  plump  legs,  as  if  he  were  going  to  get  up,  Toots 
swiftly  vanished,  and  appeared  no  more. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  his  conductress  were  soon  heard  com- 
ing down-stairs  again,  talking  all  the  way  ; and  pres- 
ently they  entered  the  doctor’s  study. 

“ I hope,  Mr.  Dombey,”  said  the  doctor,  laying 
down  his  book,  “ that  the  arrangements  meet  your  ap- 
proval.’ 

“ They  are  excellent,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“Very  fair,  indeed,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  a low 
voice  ; never  disposed  to  give  too  much  encouragement. 

“ Mrs.  Pipchin,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  wheeling  round, 
l<  will,  with  your  permission.  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber, 
visit  Paul  now  and  then.” 

“ Whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  pleases,”  observed  the 
doctor. 

“ Always  happy  to  see  her,”  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

“ I think,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ I have  given  ail  the 
trouble  I need,  and  may  take  my  leave.  Paul,  my 
child,”  he  went  close  to  him,  as  he  sat  upon  the  table. 
“ Good  bye.” 

“ Good  bye,  papa.” 

The  limp  and  careless  little  hand  that  Mr.  Dombey 
took  in  his,  was  singularly  out  of  keeping  with  the 
wistful  face.  But  he  had  no  part  in  its  sorrowful  ex- 


478 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pression.  It  was  not  addressed  to  Mm.  No,  no.  To 
Florence — all  to  Florence. 

If  Mr.  Dombey  in  Ms  insolence  of  wealth,  had  ever 
made  an  enemy,  hard  to  appease  and  cruelly  vindictive 
in  his  hate,  even  such  an  enemy  might  have  received 
the  pang  that  wrung  his  proud  heart  then,  as  compensa- 
tion for  his  injury. 

He  bent  down  over  his  boy,  and  kissed  him.  If  his 
sight  were  dimmed  as  he  did  so,  by  something  that  for 
a moment  blurred  the  little  face,  and  made  it  indistinct 
to  him,  his  mental  vision  may  have  been,  for  that  short 
time,  the  clearer  perhaps. 

“ I shall  see  you  soon,  Paul.  You  are  free  on  Satur- 
days and  Sundays,  you  know.” 

“ Yes,  papa,”  returned  Paul  : looking  at  his  sister. 
ie  On  Saturdays  and  Sundays.” 

“ And  you’ll  try  and  learn  a great  deal  here,  and  be  a 
clever  man,”  said  Mr.  Dombey  ; “ won’t  you?” 

“ I’ll  try,”  returned  the  child  wearily. 

“ And  you’ll  be  soon  grown  up  now  ! ” said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

“Oh  ! very  soon  ! ” replied  the  child.  Once  more  the 
old,  old  look,  passed  rapidly  across  his  features  like  a 
strange  light.  It  fell  on  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  extinguished 
itself  in  her  black  dress.  That  excellent  ogress  stepped 
forward  to  take  leave  and  bear  off  Florence,  which  she 
had  long  been  thirsting  to  do.  The  move  on  her  part 
roused  Mr.  Dombey,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  Paul. 
After  patting  him  on  the  head,  and  pressing  his  small 
hand  again,  he  took  leave  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  with  his  usual  polite  frigidity, 
and  walked  out  of  the  study. 

Despite  Ms  entreaty  that  they  would  not  think  of  stir- 
ring, Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber 
all  pressed  forward  to  attend  him  to  the  hall ; and  thus 
Mrs.  Pipchin  got  into  a state  of  entanglement  with  Miss 
Blimber  and  the  doctor,  and  was  crowded  out  of  the 
study  before  she  could  clutch  Florence.  To  which  happy 
accident  Paul  stood  afterwards  indebted  for  the  dear  re- 
membrance, that  Florence  ran  back  to  throw  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  that  hers  was  the  last  face  in  the 
doorway  : turned  towards  him  with  a smile  of  encourage- 
ment, the  brighter  for  the  tears  through  which  it  beamed. 

It  made  his  childish  bosom  heave  and  swell  when  it 
was  gone  ; and  sent  the  globes,  the  books,  blind  Homer 
and  Minerva,  swimming  round  the  room,  But  they 
stopped,  all  of  a sudden  ; and  then  he  heard  the  loud 
clock  in  the  hall  still  gravely  inquiring  ‘ how,  is,  my, 
lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend/  as  it  had 
done  before. 

He  sat,  with  folded  hands,  upon  his  pedestal,  silently 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


479 


listening-.  But  he  might  have  answered  c weary,  weary  ! 
very  lonely,  very  sad  ! , And  there,  with  an  aching 
void  in  his  young  heart,  and  all  outside  so  cold,  and 
bare,  and  strange,  Paul  sat  as  if  he  had  taken  life  un- 
furnished, and  the  upholsterer  were  never  coming. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Paul's  Education. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  which  appeared  an 
immense  time  to  little  Paul  Dombey  on  the  table.  Doc- 
tor Blimber  came  back.  The  doctor’s  walk  was  stately, 
and  calculated  to  impress  the  juvenile  mind  with  solemn 
feelings.  It  was  a sort  of  march  ; but  when  the  doctor 
put  out  his  right  foot,  he  gravely  turned  upon  his 
axis,  with  a semi-circular  sweep  towards  the  left ; and 
when  he  put  out  his  left  foot,  he  turned  in  the  same 
manner  towards  the  right.  So  that  he  seemed,  at  every 
stride  he  took,  to  look  about  him  as  though  he  was  say- 
ing, “ Can  anybody  have  the  goodness  to  indicate  any 
subject,  in  any  direction,  on  which  I am  uninformed  ! X 
rather  think  not.” 

Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber  came  back  in  the  doc- 
tor’s company  ; and  the  doctor,  lifting  his  new  pupil  off 
the  table,  delivered  him  over  to  Miss  Blimber. 

“ Cornelia,”  said  the  doctor,  “ Dombey  will  be  your 
charge  at  first.  Bring  him  on,  Cornelia,  bring  him  on.” 

Miss  Blimber  received  her  young  ward  from  the  Doc- 
tor’s hands  ; and  Paul,  feeling  that  the  spectacles  were 
surveying  him,  cast  down  his  eyes. 

“ How  old  are  you,  Dombey  ? ” said  Miss  Blimber. 

“ Six,”  answered  Paul,  wondering,  as  he  stole  a glanoa 
at  the  youug  lady,  why  her  hair  didn't  grow  long  like 
Florence’s,  and  why  she  was  like  a boy. 

“ How  much  do  you  know  of  your  Latin  Grammar, 
Dombey  ? ” said  Miss  Blimber. 

“None  of  it,”  answered  Paul.  Feeling  that  the  an- 
swer was  a shock  to  Miss  Blimber’s  sensibility,  he  looked 
up  at  the  three  faces  that  were  looking  down  at  him,  and 
said  : 

“ I haven’t  been  well.  I have  been  a weak  child.  I 
couldn’t  learn  a Latin  Grammar  when  I was  out,  every 
day,  with  old  Glubb.  I wish  you’d  tell  old  Glubb  tQ 
come  and  see  me,  if  you  please.  ” 

“ What  a dreadfully  low  name  ! ” said  Mrs.  Blimber. 
te  Unclassical  to  a degree  ! Who  is  the  monster,  child  ? ” 

“ What  monster?”  inquired  Paul. 

“ Glubb,”  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  a great  disrelish. 


480 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ He’s  no  more  a monster  than  you  are/7  returned  Paul. 

“ What  ! " cried  the  doctor,  in  a terrible  voice.  “Aye, 
aye,  aye  ! Aha  ! What's  that  ? " 

Paul  was  dreadfully  frightened  ; but  still  he  made  a 
stand  for  the  absent  Glubb,  though  he  did  it  trembling. 

“ He's  a very  nice  old  man,  ma’am,"  he  said.  44  He 
used  to  draw  my  couch.  He  knows  all  about  the  deep 
Eea,  and  the  fish  that  are  in  it,  and  the  great  monsters 
that  come  and  lie  on  rocks  in  the  sun,  and  dive  into  the 
water  again  when  they're  startled,  blowing  and  splashing 
so,  that  they  can  be  heard  for  miles.  There  are  some 
creatures,"  said  Paul,  warming  with  his  subject,  44  I 
don't  know  how  many  yards  long,  and  I forget  their  names, 
but  Florence  knows,  that  pretend  to  be  in  distress  ; and 
when  a man  goes  near  them,  out  of  compassion,  they 
open  their  great  jaws,  and  attack  him.  But  all  he  has 
got  to  do,"  said  Paul,  boldly  tendering  this  information 
to  the  very  doctor  himself,  “is  to  keep  on  turning  as 
he  runs  away,  and  then,  as  they  turn  slowly,  because 
they  are  so  long,  and  can't  bend,  he's  sure  to  beat  them. 
And  though  old  Glubb  don't  know  why  the  sea  should 
make  me  think  of  my  mama  that's  dead,  or  what  it  is 
that  it  is  always  saying — always  saying  ! he  knows  a 
great  deal  about  it.  And  I wish,"  the  child  concluded, 
with  a sudden  falling  of  his  countenance,  and  failing  in 
his  animation,  as  he  looked  like  one  forlorn,  upon  the 
three  strange  faces,  4 that  you’d  let  old  Glubb  come  here 
to  see  me,  for  I know  him  very  well,  and  he  knows  me. " 

44  Ha  !"  said  the  doctor,  shaking  his  head  ; 44  this  is 
bad  but  study  will  do  much." 

Mrs.  Biimber  opined,  with  something  like  a shiver, 
that  he  was  an  unaccountable  child  ; and  allowing  for  the 
difference  of  visage,  looked  at  him  pretty  much  as  Mrs. 
Pipchin  had  been  used  to  do. 

44  Take  him  round  the  house,  Cornelia,"  said  the  doctor, 
“ and  familiarise  him  with  his  new  sphere.  Go  with  that 
young  lady,  Dombey." 

Dombey  obeyed ; giving  his  hand  to  the  abstruse 
Cornelia,  and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  timid  curi- 
osity, as  they  went  away  together.  For  her  spectacles, 
by  reason  of  the  glistening  of  the  glasses,  made  her  sc 
mysterious,  that  he  didn't  know  where  she  was  looking, 
and  was  not  indeed  quite  sure  that  she  had  any  eyes  at 
all  behind  them. 

Cornelia  took  him  first  to  the  school -room,  which  was 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  was  approached 
through  two  baize  doors,  which  deadened  and  muffled 
the  young  gentlemen’s  voices.  Here,  there  were  eight 
young  gentlemen  in  various  stages  of  mental  prostration, 
all  very  hard  at  work,  and  very  grave  indeed,  Toots, 
as  an  old  hand,  had  a desk  to  himself  in  one  corner  : and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


481 


a magnificent  man,  of  immense  age,  lie  looked,  in  Paul’s 
young  eyes,  behind  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  who  sat  at  another  little  desk,  had 
Ms  Virgil  stop  on,  and  was  slowly  grinding  that  tune  to 
four  young  gentlemen.  Of  the  remaining  four,  two,  who 
grasped  their  foreheads  convulsively,  were  engaged  in 
solving  mathematical  problems  : one  with  his  face  like  a 
dirty  window,  from  much  crying,  was  endeavouring  to 
flounder  through  a hopeless  number  of  lines  before  din- 
ner : and  one  sat  looking  at  his  task  in  stony  stupefac- 
tion and  despair— which  it  seemed  had  been  his  con- 
dition ever  since  breakfast  time. 

The  appearance  of  a new  boy  did  not  create  the  sen- 
sation that  might  have  been  expected.  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A, 
who  was  in  the  habit  of  shaving  his  head'  for  coolness, 
and  had  nothing  but  little  bristles  on  it),  gave  him  a bony 
hand,  and  told  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him — which  Paul 
would  have  been  very  glad  to  have  told  him , if  he  could 
have  done  so  with  the  least  sincerity.  Then  Paul,  in- 
structed by  Cornelia,  shook  hands  with  the  four  young 
gentlemen  at  Mr.  Feeder’s  desk  ; then  with  the  two 
young  gentlemen  at  work  on  the  problems,  who  were 
very  feverish  ; then  with  the  young  gentleman  at  work 
against  time,  who  was  very  inky  ; and  lastly  with  the 
young  gentleman  in  a state  of  stupefaction,  who  was 
flabby  and  quite  cold. 

Paul  having  been  already  introduced  to  Toots,  that 
pupil  merely  chuckled  and  breathed  hard,  as  his  custom 
was,  and  pursued  the  occupation  in  which  he  was  en- 
gaged. It  was  not  a severe  one  ; for  on  account  of  his 
having." gone  through  ” so  much  (in  more  senses  than 
one),  and  also  of  his  having,  as  before  hinted,  left  off 
blowing  in  his  prime,  Toots  now  had  licence  to  pursue  his 
own  course  of  study  , which  was  chiefly  to  write  long 
ietters  to  himself  from  persons  of  distinction,  addressed 
‘ P.  Toots,  Esquire,  Brighton,  Sussex/  and  to  preserve 
them  in  his  desk  with  great  care. 

These  ceremonies  passed,  Cornelia  led  Paul  up -stairs 
to  the  top  of  the  house  ; which  was  rather  a slow  journey., 
on  account  of  Paul  being  obliged  to  land  both  feet  on 
every  stair,  before  he  mounted  another.  But  they  reached 
their  journey’s  end  at  last ; and  there,  in  a front  room, 
looking  over  the  wild  sea,  Cornelia  showed  him  a nice 
little  bed  with  white  hangings,  close  to  the  window,  on 
which  there  was  already  beautifully  written  on  a card  in 
round  text — down  strokes  very  thick,  and  up  strokes  very 
fine— Dombey  ; while  two  other  little  bedsteads  in  the 
same  room  were  announced,  through  like  means,  as  re= 
spectively  appertaining  unto  Briggs  and  Tozer. 

Just  as  they  got  down-stairs  again  into  the  hall,  Paul 
saw  the  weak-eyed  voung  man  who  had  given  that  mor- 
-U  ‘ VOL.  11 


482 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tal  offence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  suddenly  seize  a very  large 
drumstick,  and  fly  at  a gong  that  was  hanging  up,  as  if 
he  had  gone  mad,  or  wanted  vengeance.  Instead  of  re- 
ceiving warning,  however,  or  being  instantly  taken  into 
custody,  the  young  man  left  off  unchecked,  after  having 
made  a dreadful  noise.  Then  Cornelia  Blimber  said  to 
Dombey  that  dinner  would  be  ready  in  a quarter  of  an 
hour,  and  perhaps  he  had  better  go  into  the  schoolroom 
among  his  “ friends.” 

So  Dombey,  deferentially  passing  the  great  clock  which 
was  still  as  anxious  as  ever  to  know  how  lie  found  himself, 
opened  the  schoolroom  door  a very  little  way,  and  strayed 
in  like  a lost  boy  : shutting  it  after  him  with  some  diffi- 
culty. His  friends  were  all  dispersed  about  the  room 
except  the  stony  friend,  who  remained  immoveable.  Mr. 
Feeder  was  stretching  himself  in  his  gray  gown,  as  if, 
regardless  of  expense,  he  were  resolved  to  pull  the  sleeves 
off. 

“ Heigh  ho  hum  ! ” cried  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  himself 
like  a cart-horse,  “ Oh  dear  me,  dear  me  ! Ya-a-a-ah  ! ” 

Paul  was  quite  alarmed  by  Mr.  Feeder’s  yawning  ; it 
was  done  on  such  a great  scale,  and  he  was  so  terribly 
in  earnest.  All  the  boys  too  (Toots  excepted)  seemed 
knocked  up,  and  were  getting  ready  for  dinner — some 
newly  tying  their  neck-cloths,  which  were  very  stiff  in- 
deed ; and  others  washing  their  hands  or  brushing  their 
hair,  in  an  adjoining  ante -chamber — as  if  they  didn’t 
think  they  should  enjoy  it  at  all. 

Young  Toots  who  was  ready  beforehand,  and  had  there- 
fore nothing  to  do,  and  had  leisure  to  bestow  upon  Paul, 
said,  with  heavy  good  nature  : 

“ Sit  down,  Dombey.” 

“ Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Paul. 

His  endeavouring  to  hoist  himself  on  to  a very  high 
window-seat,  and  his  slipping  down  again,  appeared  to 
prepare  Toots’s  mind  for  the  reception  of  a discovery. 

“ You’re  a very  small  chap,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

“ Yes,  sir,  I’m  small,”  returned  Paul.  41  Thank  you, 
sir.” 

For  Toots  had  lifted  him  into  the  seat,  and  done  it  kind 
ly  too. 

“ Who’s  your  tailor  ?”  inquired  Toots,  after  looking  at 
him  for  some  moments. 

“ It’s  a woman  that  has  made  my  clothes  as  yet,”  said 
Paul.  44  My  sister’s  dressmaker.” 

“ My  tailor's  Burgess  and  Co.,”  said  Toots.  “ Fash’na- 
ble.  But  very  dear.” 

Paul  had  wit  enough  to  shake  his  head,  as  if  he  would 
have  said  it  was  easy  to  see  that : and  indeed  he  thought 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


483 


“ Your  father’s  regularly  rich,  ain’t  he  ?”  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

“ Yes,  sir,”  said  Paul.  “ He’s  Dombey  and  Son.” 

“ And  which  ?”  demanded  Toots. 

“ And  Son,  sir,”  replied  Paul. 

Mr.  Toots  made  one  or  two  attempts,  in  a low  voice,  to 
fix  the  firm  in  his  mind  ; but  not  quite  succeeding,  said 
he  would  get  Paul  to  mention  the  name  again  to-morrow 
morning,  as  it  was  rather  important.  And  indeed  he 
purposed  nothing  less  than  writing  himself  a private  and 
confidential  letter  from  Dombey  and  Son  immediately. 

By  this  time  the  other  pupils  (always  excepting  the 
stony  boy)  gathered  round.  They  were  polite,  but  pale  : 
and  spoke  low  ; and  they  were  so  depressed  in  their  spir- 
its, that  in  comparison  with  the  general  tone  of  that  com 
pany.  Master  Bitherstone  was  a perfect  Miller,  or  complete 
Jest  Book.  And  yet  he  had  a sense  of  injury  upon  him 
too,  had  Bitherstone. 

‘‘You  sleep  in  my  room,  don’t  you?”  asked  a solemn 
young  gentleman,  whose  shirt-collar  curled  up  the  lobes 
of  his  ears. 

“ Master  Briggs  ?”  inquired  Paul. 

“ Tozer,”  said  the  young  gentleman. 

Paul  answered  yes  ; and  Tozer  pointing  out  the  stony 
pupil,  said  that  w^as  Briggs.  Paul  had  already  felt  cer- 
tain that  it  must  be  either  Briggs  or  Tozer,  though  he 
didn’t  know  why. 

4 ‘Is  yours  a strong  constitution?”  inquired  Tozer. 

Paul  said  he  thought  not.  Tozer  replied  that  he 
thought  not  also,  judging  from  Paul’s  looks,  and  that  it 
was  a pity,  for  it  need  be.  He  then  asked  Paul  if  he 
were  going  to  begin  with  Cornelia  ; and  on  Paul  sajing 
“yes,”  all  the  young  gentlemen  (Briggs  excepted)  gave 
a low  groan. 

It  was  drowned  in  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  gong, 
which  sounding  again  with  great  fury,  there  was  a general 
move  towards  the  dining-room  ; still  excepting  Briggs  the 
stony  boy,  who  remained  where  he  was,  and  as  he  was  ; 
and  on  its  way  to  whom  Paul  presently  encountered  a 
round  of  bread  genteelly  served  on  a plate  and  napkin, 
and  with  a silver  fork  lying  crosswise  on  the  top  of  it. 
Doctor  Blimber  was  already  in  his  place  in  the  dining- 
room, at  the  top  of  the  table,  with  Miss  Blimber  and 
Mrs.  Blimber  on  either  side  of  him.  Mr.  Feeder  in  a 
black  coat  was  at  the  bottom.  Paul’s  chair  was  next  to 
Miss  Blimber  ; but  it  being  found,  when  he  sat  in  it, 
that  his  eyebrows  were  not  much  above  the  level  of  the 
table-cloth,  some  books  were  brought  in  from  the  doc- 
tor’s study,  on  which  he  was  elevated,  and  on  which 
he  always  sat  from  that  time— -carrying  them  in  and  out 


484 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


• 

himself  on  after  occasions,  like  a little  elephant  and 
castle. 

Grace  having  been  said  by  the  doctor,  dinner  began. 
There  was  some  nice  soup  ; also  roast  meat,  boiled  meat, 
vegetables,  pie,  and  cheese.  Every  young  gentleman 
had  a massive  silver  fork,  and  a napkin  ; and  all  the  ar- 
rangements were  stately  and  handsome.  In  particular, 
there  was  a butler  in  a blue  coat  and  bright  buttons, 
who  gave  quite  a winev  flavour  to  the  table  beer  ; he 
poured  it  out  so  superbly. 

Nobody  spoke,  unless  spoken  to,  except  Doctor  Blim- 
ber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  who  conversed  oc- 
casionally. Whenever  a young  gentleman  was  not  ac- 
tually engaged  with  his  knife  and  fork  or  spoon,  his  eye, 
with  an  irresistible  attraction,  sought  the  eye  of  Doctor 
Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber  or  Miss  Blimber,  and  modestly 
rested  there.  Toots  appeared  to  be  the  only  exception  to 
this  rule.  He  sat  next  Mr.  Feeder  on  Paul's  side  of  the 
table,  and  frequently  looked  behind  and  before  the  in- 
tervening boys  to  catch  a glimpse  of  Paul. 

Only  once  during  dinner  was  there  any  conversation 
that  included  the  young  gentlemen.  It  happened  at  the 
epoch  of  the  cheese,  when  the  doctor  having  taken  3 
glass  of  port  wine,  and  hemmed  twice  or  thrice,  said  : 

“ It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,  that  the  Romans — ” 

At  the  mention  of  this  terrible  people,  their  implac- 
able enemies,  every  young  .gentleman  fastened  his  gazft 
upon  the  doctor,  with  an  assumption  of  the  deepest  inter- 
est. One  of  the  number  who  happened  to  be  drinking, 
and  who  caught  the  doctor’s  eye  glaring  at  him  through 
the  side  of  his  tumbler,  left  off  so  hastily  that  he  was 
convulsed  for  some  moments,  and  in  the  sequel  ruined 
Doctor  Blimber’s  point. 

“It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,”  said  the  doctor,  be- 
ginning again  slowly,  “ that  the  Romans,  in  those  gor- 
geous and  profuse  entertainments  of  which  we  read  in 
the  days  of  the  Emperors,  when  luxury  had  attained  a 
height  unknown  before  or  since,  and  when  whole  pro- 
vinces were  ravaged  to  supply  the  splendid  means  of 
one  imperial  banquet—” 

Here  the  offender,  who  had  been  swelling  and  straining, 
and  waiting  in  vain  for  a full  stop,  broke  out  violently. 

“Johnson,”  said  Mr.  Feeder,  in  a low  reproachful 
voice,  “ take  some  water.” 

The  doctor,  looking  very  stern,  made  a pause  until  the 
water  was  brought,  and  then  resumed  : 

“ And  when,  Mr.  Feeder — ” 

But  Mr.  Feeder,  who  saw  that  Johnson  must  break 
out  again,  and  who  knew  that  the  doctor  would  never 
come  to  a period  before  the  young  gentlemen  unt«l  he 
had  finished  all  he  meant  to  say,  couldn’t  keep  his  eye 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


48  r> 


off  Jolmson  ; and  tlius  was  cauglit  in  the  fact  of  not 
looking  at  the  doctor,  wlio  consequently  stopped. 

“ I beg  your  pardon  sir,”  said  Mr.  Feeder,  reddening. 
“ I beg  your  pardon,  Doctor  Blimber.” 

“And  when,”  said  the  doctor,  raising  his  voice, 
“ when,  sir,  as  we  read,  and  have  no  reason  to  doubt — 
incredible  as  it  may  appear  to  the  vulgar  of  our  time — 
the  brother  of  Vitellius  prepared  for  him  a feast,  in 
which  were  served  of  fish,  two  thousand  dishes — ” 

“Take  some  water,  Johnson — dishes,  sir,”  said  Mr. 
Feeder. 

“Of  various  sorts  of  fowl,  five  thousand  dishes.” 

“Or  try  a crust  of  bread,”  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

“ And  one  dish,”  pursued  Doctor  Blimber,  raising  his 
voice  still  higher  as  he  looked  all  round  the  table, 
“called,  from  its  enormous  dimensions,  the  Shield  of 
Minerva,  and  made,  among  other  costly  ingredients,  of 
the  brains  of  pheasants — ” 

“Ow,  ow,  ow  ! ” (from  Johnson.) 

“ Woodcocks.” 

“ Ow,  ow,  ow  ! ” 

“ The  sounds  of  the  fish  called  scari,” 

“ You’ll  burst  some  vessel  in  your  head,”  said  Mr. 
Feeder.  “ You  had  better  let  it  come.” 

“And  the  spawn  of  the  lamprey,  brought  from  the 
Carpathian  Sea,”  pursued  the  doctor  in  his  severest 
voice  ; “ when  we  read  of  costly  entertainments  such  as 
these,  and  still  remember,  that  we  have  a Titus,” 

“What  would  be  your  mother’s  feelings  if  you  died  of 
apoplexy  ! ” said  Mr.  Feeder. 

“ A Domitian,” 

“ And  you’re  blue,  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

“A  Nero,  a Tiberius,  a Caligula,  a Heliogabalus,  and 
many  more,”  pursred  the  doctor ; “it  is,  Mr.  Feeder — 
if  y$u  are  doing  me  the  honour  to  attend — remarkable  : 
very  remarkable,  sir — ” 

But  Johnson,  unable  to  suppress  it  any  longer,  burst 
at  that  moment  into  such  an  overwhelming  fit  of  cough- 
ing, that,  although  both  his  immediate  neighbours 
thumped  him  on  the  back,  and  Mr.  Feeder  himself 
held  a glass  of  water  to  his  lips,  and  the  butler  walked 
him  up  and  down  several  times  between  his  own  chair 
and  the  sideboard,  like  a sentry,  it  was  full  five  minutes 
before  he  was  moderately  composed,  and  then  there  was 
a profound  silence. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  Doctor  Blimber,  “rise  for  Grace  ! 
Cornelia,  lift  Dombey  down  ” — nothing  of  whom  but  his 
scalp  was  accordingly  seen  above  the  table-cloth. 
“Johnson  will  repeat  to  me  to-morrow  morning  before 
breakfast,  without  book,  and  from  the  Greek  Testament, 
the  first  chapter  of  the  Epistle  of  Saint  Paul  to  the 


486 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Ephesians.  We  will  resume  our  studies,  Mr.  Feeder,  in 
half -an -hour.  " 

The  young  gentlemen  bowed  and  withdrew.  Mr. 
Feeder  did  likewise.  During  the  half-hour,  the  young 
gentlemen,  broken  into  pairs,  loitered  arm-in-arm  up  and 
down  a small  piece  of  ground  behind  the  house,  or  en- 
deavoured to  kindle  a spark  of  animation  in  the  breast 
of  Briggs.  But  nothing  happened  so  vulgar  as  play. 
Punctually  at  the  appointed  time,  the  gongwas  sounded, 
and  the  studies,  under  the  joint  auspices  of  Doctor 
Blimber  and  Mr.  Feeder,  were  resumed. 

As  the  Olympic  game  of  lounging  up  and  down  had 
been  cut  shorter  than  usual  that  day,  on  Johnson's  ac- 
count, they  all  went  out  for  a walk  before  tea.  Ever* 
Briggs  (though  he  hadn't  begun  yet)  partook  of  this 
dissipation  ; in  the  enjoyment  of  which  he  looked  over 
the  cliff  two  or  three  times  darkly.  Doctor  Blimber  ac- 
companied them  ; and  Paul  had  the  honour  of  being 
taken  in  tow  by  the  doctor  himself  : a distinguished 
state  of  things,  in  which  he  looked  very  little  and 
feeble. 

Tea  was  served  in  a style  no  less  polite  than  the 
dinner  ; and  after  tea,  the  young  gentlemen  rising  and 
bowing  as  before,  withdrew  to  fetch  up  the  unfinished 
tasks  of  that  day,  or  to  get  up  the  already  looming  tasks 
of  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Feeder  withdrew 
to  his  own  room  ; and  Paul  sat  in  a corner  wondering 
whether  Florence  was  thinking  of  him,  and  what  they 
were  all  about  at  Mrs.  PipchiiTs. 

Mr.  Toots,  who  had  been  detained  by  an  important 
letter  from  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  found  Paul  ouf 
after  a time  ; and  having  looked  for  him  a long  while, 
as  before,  inquired  if  he  was  fond  of  waistcoats. 

Paul  said  “ Yes,  sir." 

* “ So  am  I,”  said  Toots.  * 

No  word  more  spake  Toots  that  night ; but  he  stood 
looking  at  Paul  as  if  he  liked  him  ; and  as  there  was 
company  in  that,  and  Paul  was  not  inclined  to  talk,  it 
answered  his  purpose  better  than  conversation. 

At  eight  o'clock  or  so,  the  gong  sounded  again  for 
prayers  in  the  dining-room,  where  the  butler  afterwards 
presided  over  a side  table,  on  which  bread  and  cheese 
and  beer  were  spread  for  such  young  gentlemen  as  de- 
sired to  partake  of  those  refreshments.  The  ceremonies 
concluded  by  the  doctor's  saying,  “Gentlemen,  we  will 
resume  our  studies  at  seven  to-morrow  ; " and  then,  for 
the  first  time,  Paul  saw  Cornelia  Blimber's  eye,  and 
saw  that  it  was  upon  him.  When  the  doctor  had  said 
these  words,  “ Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies 
at  seven  to-morrow,"  the  pupils  bowed  again,  and  went 
to  bed. 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


487 


In  the  confidence  of  their  own  room  up-stairs,  Briggs 
said  his  head  ached  ready  to  split,  and  that  he  should 
wish  himself  dead  if  it  wasn't  for  his  mother,  and  a 
blackbird  he  had  at  home.  Tozer  didn’t  say  much,  but 
he  sighed  a good  deal,  and  told  Paul  to  look  out,  for  his 
turn  would  come  to-morrow.  After  uttering  those  pro- 
phetic words,  he  undressed  himself  moodily,  and  got 
into  bed.  Briggs  was  in  his  bed  too,  and  Paul  in  his  bed 
too,  before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  appeared  to  take 
away  the  candle,  when  he  wished  them  good  night  and 
pleasant  dreams.  But  his  benevolent  wishes  were  in 
vain,  as  far  as  Briggs  and  Tozer  were  concerned  ; for 
Paul,  who  lay  awake  for  a long  while,  and  often  woke 
afterwards,  found  that  Briggs  was  ridden  by  his  lesson  as 
a nightmare  ; and  that  Tozer,  whose  mind  was  affected 
in  his  sleep  by  similar  causes,  in  a minor  degree, 
talked  unknown  tongues,  or  scraps  of  Greek  and  Latin 
— it  was  all  one  to  Paul — which,  in  the  silence  of  the 
night,  had  an  inexpressibly  wicked  and  guilty  effect. 

Paul  had  sunk  into  a sweet  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  he 
was  walking  hand  in  hand  with  Florence  through  beau- 
tiful gardens,  when  they  came  to  a large  sunflower  which 
suddenly  expanded  itself  into  a gong,  and  began  to 
sound.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  found  that  it  was  a dark, 
windy  morning,  with  a drizzling  rain  ; and  that  the  real 
gong  was  giving  dreadful  note  of  preparation,  down  in 
the  hall. 

So  he  got  up  directly,  and  found  Briggs  with  hardly 
any  eyes,  for  nightmare  and  grief  had  made  his  face 
puffy,  putting  his  boots  on  : while  Tozer  stood  shivering 
and  rubbing  his  shoulders  in  a very  bad  humour.  Poor 
Paul  couldn’t  dress  himself  easily,  not  being  used  to  it, 
and  asked  them  if  they  would  have  the  goodness  to  tie 
some  strings  for  him  ; but  as  Briggs  merely  said 
“ Bother  ! ” and  Tozer,  “ Oh  yes  ! ” he  went  down  when 
he  was  otherwise  ready,  to  the  next  story,  where  he  saw 
a pretty  young  woman  in  leather  gloves,  cleaning  a stove. 
The  young  woman  seemed  surprised  at  his  appearance, 
and  asked  him  where  his  mother  was.  When  Paul  told 
her  she  was  dead,  she  took  her  gloves  off,  and  did  what 
he  wanted  ; and  furthermore  rubbed  his  hands  to  warm 
them  ; and  gave  him  a kiss  ; and  told  him  whenever  he 
wanted  anything  of  that  sort — meaning  in  the  dressing 
way — to  ask  for  ’Melia  ; which  Paul,  thanking  her  very 
much,  said  he  certainly  would.  He  then  proceeded 
softly  on  his  journey  down-stairs,  towards  the  room  in 
which  the  young  gentlemen  resumed  their  studies,  when, 
passing  by  a door  that  stood  ajar,  a voice  from  within 
cried  “ Is  that  Dombey?”  On  Paul  replying,  “Yes, 
ma’am  : ” for  he  knew  the  voice  to  be  Miss  Blimber’s  ; 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Miss  Blimber  said  “Come  in,  Dombey.”  And  in  be 
went. 

Miss  Blimber  presented  exactly  tbe  appearance  slie  bad 
presented  yesterday,  except  that  she  wore  a shawl.  Her 
little  light  curls  were  as  crisp  as  ever,  and  she  had 
already  her  spectacles  on,  which  made  Paul  wonder 
whether  she  went  to  bed  in  them.  She  had  a cool  little 
sitting-room  of  her  own  up  there,  with  some  books  in 
it,  and  no  fire.  But  Miss  Blimber  was  never  cold,  and 
never  sleepy. 

“ Now,  Dombey,”  said  Miss  Blimber,  “Pm  going  out 
for  a constitutional.” 

Paul  wondered  what  that  was,  and  why  she  didn't  send 
the  footman  out  to  get  it  in  such  unfavourable  weather. 
But  he  made  no  observation  on  the  subject  : his  atten- 
tion being  devoted  to  a little  pile  of  new  books,  on 
which  Miss  Blimber  appeared  to  have  been  recently  en- 
gaged. 

“ These  are  yours,  Dombey,”  said  Miss  Blimber. 

“ All  of  'em,  ma'am  ? ” said  Paul. 

“ Yes,”  returned  Miss  Blimber  ; “ and  Mr.  Feeder  will 
look  you  out  some  more  very  soon  if  you  are  as  studious 
as  I expect  you  will  be,  Dombey.” 

“ Thank  you,  ma'am,”  said  Paul. 

“I  am  going  out  for  a constitutional,”  resumed  Miss 
Blimber  ; “and  while  I am  gone,  that  is  to  say  in  the 
interval  between  this  and  breakfast,  Dombey,  I wish 
you  to  read  over  what  I have  marked  in  these  books, 
and  to  tell  me  if  you  quite  understand  what  you  have 
got  to  learn.  Don’t  lose  time,  Dombey,  for  you  have 
none  to  spare,  but  take  them  down-stairs,  and  begin  di- 
rectly.” 

“Yes,  ma'am,”  answered  Paul. 

There  were  so  many  of  them,  that  although  Paul  put 
one  hand  under  the  bottom  book  and  his  other  hand  and 
his  chin  on  the  top  book,  and  hugged  them  all  closely, 
the  middle  book  slipped  out  before  he  reached  the  door, 
and  then  they  all  tumbled  down  on  the  floor.  Miss  Blim- 
ber said,  “Oh  Dombey,  Dombey,  this  is  really  very  care- 
less ! ” and  piled  them  up  afresh  for  him  ; and  this  time, 
by  dint  of  balancing  them  with  great  nicety,  Paul  got 
out  of  the  room,  and  down  a few  stairs  before  two  of 
them  escaped  again.  But  he  held  the  rest  so  tight,  that 
he  only  left  one  more  on  the  first  floor,  and  one  in  the 
passage  ; and  when  he  had  got  the  main  body  down  into 
the  school -room,  he  set  off  up-stairs  again  to  collect  the 
stragglers.  Having  at  last  amassed  the  whole  library, 
and  climbed  into  his  place,  he  fell  to  work,  encouraged 
by  a remark  from  Tozer  to  the  effect  that  he  “was  in 
for  it  now  ; ” which  was  the  only  interruption  he  re- 
ceived till  breakfast  time.  At  that  meal,  for  which  he 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


489 


had  no  appetite,  everything  was  quite  as  solemn  and 
genteel  as  at  the  others  ; and  when  it  was  finished,  he 
followed  Miss  Blimber  up-stairs. 

“ Now,  Dombey,”  said  Miss  Blimber.  ‘‘How  have 
you  got  on  with  those  books  ? ” 

They  comprised  a little  English,  and  a deal  of  Latin— 
names  of  things,  declensions  of  articles  and  substan 
fives,  exercises  thereon,  and  preliminary  rules — a trifle 
of  orthography,  a glance  at  ancient  history,  a wink  or  two 
at  modern  ditto,  a few  tables,  two  or  three  weights  and 
measures,  and  a little  general  information.  When  poor 
Paul  had  spelt  out  number  two,  he  found  he  had  no 
idea  of  number  one  ; fragments  whereof  afterwards  ob- 
truded themselves  into  number  three,  which  slided  into 
number  four,  which  grafted  itself  on  to  number  two. 
80  that  whether  twenty  Romuluses  made  a Remus,  or 
hie  haec  hoc  was  Troy  weight,  or  a verb  always  agreed 
with  an  ancient  Briton,  or  three  times  four  was  Taurus  a 
bull,  were  open  questions  with  him, 

“Oh,  Dombey,  Dombey  ! ” said  Miss  Blimber,  this  ig 
very  shocking.’" 

“ If  you  please,”  said  Paul,  “I  think  if  I might  some- 
times talk  a little  to  old  Glubb,  I should  be  able  to  do 
better.” 

“Nonsense,  Dombey,”  said  Miss  Blimber.  “ I couldn’t 
hear  of  it.  This  is  not  the  place  for  Glubbs  of  any  kind. 
You  must  take  the  books  down,  I suppose,  Dombey,  one 
by  one,  and  perfect  yourself  in  -the  day’s  instalment  of 
subject  A,  before  you  turn  at  ail  to  subject  B.  And  now 
take  awray  the  top  book,  if  you  please,  Dombey,  and  re 
turn  when  you  are  master  of  the  theme.” 

Miss  Blimber  expressed  her  opinions  on  the  subject  of 
Paul’s  uninstructed  state  with  a gloomy  delight,  as  if 
she  had  expected  this  result,  and  were  glad  to  find  that 
they  must  be  in  constant  communication.  Paul  with 
drew  with  the  top  task,  as  he  was  told,  and  laboured  away 
at  it,  down  below  : sometimes  remembering  every  word 
of  it,  sometimes  forgetting  it  all,  and  everything  else  be- 
sides : until  at  last  he  ventured  up-stairs  again  to  repeat 
the  lesson , when  it  was  nearly  all  driven  out  of  his  head 
before  he  began,  by  Miss  Blimber’s  shutting  up  the  book, 
and  saying,  “ Go  on,  Dombey  ! ” a proceeding  so  sugges- 
tive of  the  knowledge  inside  of  her,  that  Paul  looked 
upon  the  young  lady  with  consternation,  as  a kind  of 
learned  Guy  Faux,  or  artificial  Bogle,  stuffed  full  of 
scholastic  straw. 

He  acquitted  himself  very  well,  nevertheless  ; and 
Miss  Blimber,  commending  him  as  giving  promise  of  get- 
ting on  fast,  immediately  provided  him  with  subject  B ; 
from  which  he  passed  to  C,  and  even  to  D before  dinner. 
It  was  hard  work,  resuming  his  studies,  soon  after  din* 


490 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ner  ; and  he  felt  giddy  and  confused,  and  drowsy  and 
dull.  But  all  the  other  young  gentlemen  had  similar 
sensations,  and  were  obliged  to  resume  their  studies  too, 
if  there  were  any  comfort  in  that.  It  was  a wonder  that 
the  great  clock  in  the  hall,  instead  of  being  constant  to 
its  first  inquiry,  never  said,  “Gentlemen,  we  will  now 
resume  our  studies,”  for  that  phrase  was  often  enough 
repeated  in  its  neighbourhood.  The  studies  went  round 
like  a mighty  wheel,  and  the  young  gentlemen  were  al  - 
ways stretched  upon  it. 

After  tea  there  were  exercises  again,  and  preparations 
for  next  day  by  candle-light.  And  in  due  course  there 
w.as  bed  ; where,  but  for  that  resumption  of  the  studies 
which  took  place  in  dreams, 'were  rest  and  sweet  forget- 
fulness. * 

Oh  Saturdays  ! Oh  happy  Saturdays  ! when  Florence 
always  came  at  noon,  and  never  would,  in  any  weather, 
stay  away,  though  Mrs.  Pipchin  snarled  and  growled, 
and  worried  her  bitterly.  Those  Saturdays  were  Sab- 
baths for  at  least  two  little  Christians  among  all  the 
Jews,  and  did  the  holy  Sabbath  work  of  strengthening 
and  knitting  up  a brother's  and  a sister's  love. 

Not  even  Sunday  nights — the  heavy  Sunday  nights, 
whose  shadow  darkened  the  first  waking  burst  of  lighf; 
on  Sunday  mornings — could  mar  those  precious  Satur- 
days. Whether  it  was  the  great  sea-shore,  where  they 
sat,  and  strolled  together  ; or  whether  it  was  only  Mrs. 
Pipchin’s  dull  back  room,  in  which  she  sang  to  him  so 
softly,  with  his  drowsy  head  upon  her  arm  ; Paul  never 
cared.  Jt  was  Florence.  That  was  all  he  thought  of. 
So,  on  Sunday  nights,  when  the  Doctor’s  dark  door  stood 
agape  to  swallow  him  up  for  another  week,  the  time  was 
come  for  taking  leave  of  Florence  ; no  one  else. 

Mrs.  Wickam  had  been  drafted  home  to  the  house  in 
town,  and  Miss  Nipper,  now  a smart  young  woman,  had 
come  down.  To  many  a single  combat  with  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  did  Miss  Nipper  gallantly  devote  herself  ; and  if 
ever  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  all  her  life  had  found  her  match, 
she  had  found  it  now.  Miss  Nipper  threw  away  the 
scabbard  the  first  morning  she  arose  in  Mrs.  Pipchin’s 
house.  She  asked  and  gave  no  quarter.  She  said  it 
must  be  war,  and  war  it  was  ; and  Mrs.  Pipchin  lived 
from  that  time  in  the  midst  of  surprises,  harassings, 
and  defiances  ; and  skirmishing  attacks  that  came  bounc- 
ing in  upon  her  from  the  passage, even  in  unguarded  mo. 
ments  of  chops,  and  carried  desolation  to  her  very  toast. 

Miss  Nipper  had  returned  one  Sunday  night  with  Flor- 
ence, from  walking  back  with  Paul  to  the  Doctor’s,  when 
Florence  took  from  her  bosom  a little  piece  of  paper,  on 
which  she  had  penciled  down  some  words. 


DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 


491 


**See  here,  Susan/5  she  said.  “ These  are  the  names 
of  the  little  books  that  Paul  brings  home  to  do  those  long 
exercises  with,  when  he  is  so  tired.  I copied  them  last 
night  while  he  was  writing.0 

“ Don’t  show  'em  to  me  Miss  Floy,  if  you  please,0 
returned  Nipper,  “I’d  as  soon  see  Mrs.  Pipchin.  ° 

“ I want  you  to  buy  them  for  me,  Susan,  if  you  will, 
to-morrow  morning.  I have  money  enough,0  said  Flor- 
ence. 

“Why,  goodness  gracious  me,  Miss  Floy,”  returned 
Nipper,  “how  can  you  talk  like  that,  when  you  have 
books  upon  books  already,  and  masterses  and  missesses 
a teaching  of  you  everything  continual,  though  my 
belief  is  that  your  pa,  Miss  Do m bey,  never  would  have 
learnt  you  nothing,  never  would  have  thought  of  it, 
unless  you’d  asked  him — when  he  couldn’t  well  refuse  ; 
but  giving  consent  when  asked,  and  offering  when  un- 
asked, miss,  is  quite  two  things  ; I may  not  have  my 
objections  to  a young  man’s  keeping  company  with  me, 
and  when  he  puts  the  question,  may  say  ‘yes,’  but  that’s 
not  saying  ‘ would  you  be  so  kind  as  like  me.’  ” 

“ But  you  can  buy  me  the  books,  Susan  ; and  you  will, 
when  you  know  I want  them.” 

“Well,  miss,  and  why  do  you  want  ’em?”  replied 
Nipper  ; adding,  in  a lower  voice,  “if  it  was  to  fling  at 
Mrs.  Pipchin’s  head,  I’d  buy  a cart-load.” 

“I  think  I could  perhaps  give  Paul  some  help,  Susan, 
if  I had  these  books,”  said  Florence,  “and  make  the 
coming  week  a little  easier  to  him.  At  least  I want  to 
try.  So  buy  them  for  me,  dear,  and  I will  never  forget 
how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  do  it ! ” 

It  must  have  been  a harder  heart  than  Susan  Nipper’s 
that  could  have  rejected  the  little  purse  Florence  held 
out  with  these  wt>rds,  or  the  gentle  look  of  entreaty  with 
which  she  secpnded  her  petition.  Susan  put  the  purse 
in  her  pocket  without  reply,  and  trotted  out  at  once  upon 
her  errand. 

The  books  were  not  easy  to  procure  ; and  the  answer 
at  several  shops  was,  either  that  they  were  just  out  of 
them,  or  that  they  never  kept  them,  or  that  they  had 
had  a great  many  last  month,  or  that  they  expected  a 
great  many  next  week.  But  Susan  was  not  easily  baffled 
in  such  an  enterprise  ; and  having  entrapped  a white- 
haired  youth,  in  a black  calico  apron,  from  a library 
where  she  was  known,  to  accompany  her  in  her  quest, 
she  led  him  such  a life  in  going  up  and  down,  that  he 
exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  if  it  were  only  to  get  rid 
6f  her  ; and  finally  enabled  her  to  return  home  in  tri- 
umph. 

With  these  treasures  then,  after  her  own  daily  lessons 
were  over,  Florence  sat  down  at  night  to  track  Paul’s 


m 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


footsteps  through  the  thorny  ways  of  learning  ; and  being 
possessed  of  a naturally  quick  and  sound  capacity,  and 
taught  by  that  most  wonderful  of  masters,  love,  it  was 
not  long  before  she  gained  upon  Paul’s  heels,  and  caught 
and  passed  him. 

Not  a word  of  this  was  breathed  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  : but 
many  a night  when  they  were  all  in  bed,  and  when  Miss 
Nipper,  with  her  hair  in  papers  and  herself  asleep  in 
some  uncomfortable  attitude,  reposed  unconscious  by 
her  side  ; and  when  the  chinking  ashes  in  the  grate 
were  cold  and  grey  ; and  when  the  candles  were  burnt 
down  and  guttering  out ; — Florence  tried  so  hard  to  be 
a substitute  for  one  small  Dombey,  that  her  fortitude 
and  perseverance  might  have  almost  won  her  a free 
right  to  bear  the  name  herself. 

And  high  was  her  reward,  when  one  Saturday  evening, 
as  little  Paul  was  sitting  down  as  usual  to  “ resume  his 
studies,”  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  showed  him  all 
that  wa3  so  rough,  made  smooth,  and  all  that  was  so 
dark,  made  clear  and  plain,  before  him.  It  was  nothing 
but  a startled  look  in  Paul’s  wan  face — a flush — a smile 
—and  then  a close  embrace — but  God  knows  how  her 
heart  leaped  up  at  this  rich  payment  for  her  trouble. 

“Oh,  Floy!”  cried  her  brother,  “how  I love  you! 
How  I love  you,  Floy  !” 

“ And  I you,  dear  ! ” 

“Oh  ! I am  sure  of  that,  Floy.” 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  but  all  that  evening  sat 
close  by  her,  very  quiet  ; and  in  the  night  he  called  out 
from  his  little  room  within  hers,  three  or  four  times, 
that  he  loved  her. 

Regularly,  after  that,  Florence  was  prepared  to  sit 
down  with  Paul  on  Saturday  night,  and  patiently  assist 
him  through  so  much  as  they  could  anticipate  together, 
of  his  next  week’s  work.  The  cheering  thought  that  he 
was  labouring  on  where  Florence  had  just  toiled  before 
him,  would,  of  itself,  have  been  a stimulant  to  Paul  in 
the  perpetual  resumption  of  his  studies  ; but  coupled 
with  the  actual  lightening  of  his  load,  consequent  on 
this  assistance,  it  saved  him,  possibly  from  sinking  un- 
derneath the  burden  which  the  fair  Cornelia  Blimber 
piled  upon  his  back. 

It  was  not  that  Miss  Blimber  meant  to  be  too  hard 
upon  him,  or  that  Doctor  Blimber  meant  to  bear  too 
heavily  on  the  young  gentlemen  in  general.  Cornelia 
merely  held  the  faith  in  which  she  had  been  bred  ; and 
the  doctor,  in  some  partial  confusion  of  his  ideas,  re- 
garded the  young  gentlemen  as  if  they  were  all  doctors, 
and  were  born  grown  up.  Comforted  by  the  applause 
of  the  young  gentlemen’s  relations,  and  urged  on  by 
their  blind  vanity  and  ill-considered  haste,  it  would 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


493 


have  been  strange  if  Doctor  Blimber  had  discovered  his 
mistake,  or  trimmed  his  swelling  sails  to  any  other  tack. 

Thus  in  the  case  of  Paul.  When  Doctor  Blimber  said 
he  made  great  progress,  and  was  naturally  clever,  Mr. 
Dombey  was  more  bent  than  ever  on  his  being  forced  and 
crammed.  In  the  case  of  Briggs,  when  Dr.  Blimber  re- 
ported that  he  did  not  make  great  progress  yet,  and  was 
not  naturally  clever,  Briggs  senior  was  inexorable  in  the 
same  purpose.  In  short,  however  high  and  false  the 
temperature  at  which  the  doctor  kept  his  hothouse,  the 
owners  of  the  plants  were  always  ready  to  lend  a helping 
hand  at  the  bellows,  and  to  stir  the  fire. 

Such  spirits  as  he  had  in  the  outset,  Paul  soon  lost  of 
course.  But  he  retained  all  that  was  strange,  and  old, 
and  thoughtful  in  his  character;  and  under  circum- 
stances so  favourable  to  the  development  of  these  tenden- 
cies, became  even  more  strange,  and  old,  and  thought- 
ful, than  before. 

The  only  difference  was,  that  he  kept  his  character  to 
himself.  He  grew  more  thoughtful  and  reserved,  every 
day  ; and  had  no  such  curiosity  in  any  living  member  of 
the  doctor’s  household,  as  he  had  had  in  Mrs.  Pipchin* 
He  loved  to  be  alone  ; and  in  those  short  intervals  when 
he  was  not  occupied  with  his  books,  liked  nothing  so 
well  as  wandering  about  the  house  by  himself,  or  sit- 
ting on  the  stairs,  listening  to  the  great  clock  in  the 
hall.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the  paper-hangings  in 
the  house ; saw  things  that  no  one  else  saw  in  the  pat- 
terns, ; found  out  miniature  tigers  and  lions  running  up 
the  bedroom  walls,  and  squinting  faces  leering  in  the 
squares  and  diamonds  of  the  floor  cloth. 

The  solitary  child  lived  on,  surrounded  by  this  ara- 
besque work  of  his  musing  fancy,  and  no  one  under- 
stood him.  Mrs.  Blimber  thought  him  “odd,”  and 
sometimes  the  servants  said  among  themselves  that  little 
Dombey  “ moped  ; ” but  that  was  all. 

Unless  young  Toots  had  some  idea  on  the  subject,  to 
the  expression  of  which  he  was  wholly  unequal.  Ideas, 
like  ghosts  (according  to  the  common  notion  of  ghosts), 
must  be  spoken  to  a little  before  they  will  explain  them- 
selves ; and  Toots  had  long  left  off  asking  any  questions 
of  his  own  mind.  Some  mist  there  may  have  been,  issu- 
ing from  that  leaden  casket,  his  cranium,  which,  if  it  could 
have  taken  shape  and  form,  would  have  become  a genie  ; 
but  it  could  not ; and  it  only  so  far  followed  the  exam- 
ple of  the  smoke  in  the  Arabian  story,  as  to  roll  out  in  a 
thick  cloud,  and  there  hang  and  hover.  But  it  left  a 
little  figure  visible  upon  a lonely  shore,  and  Toots  was 
always  staring  at  it. 

“How  are  you?”  he  would  say  to  Paul  fifty  times  a 


494 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you/’  Paul  would  answer. 

“ Shake  hands,”  would  be  Toots’s  next  advance. 

Which  Paul,  of  course,  would  immediately  do.  Mr. 
Toots  generally  said  again,  after  a long  interval  of  star- 
ing and  hard  breathing,  “How  are  you?”  To  which 
Paul  again  replied,  “Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you.” 

One  evening  Mr.  Toots  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  op- 
pressed by  correspondence,  when  a great  purpose  seemed 
to  flash  upon  him.  He  laid  down  his  pen,  and  went  off 
to  seek  Paul,  whom  he  found  at  last,  after  a long  search, 
looking  through  the  window  of  his  little  bedroom, 

“Isay!”  cried  Toots,  speaking  the  moment  he  en- 
tered the  room,  lest  he  should  forget  it ; “ what  do  yoq 
think  about  ? ” 

“Oh  ! I think  about  a great  many  things,”  replied 
Paul. 

“ Do  you,  though  ?”  said  Toots,  appearing  to  consider 
that  fact  in  itself  surprising. 

“ If  you  had  to  die,”  said  Paul,  looking  up  into  his 
face — Mr.  Toots  started,  and  seemed  much  disturbed. 

“ — Don’Wou  think  you  would  rather  die  on  a moon- 
light night  when  the  sky  was  quite  clear,  and  the  wind 
blowing,  as  it  did  last  night  ? ” 

Mr.  Toots  said,  looking  doubtfully  at  Paul,  and  shak- 
ing his  head,  that  he  didn’t  know  about  that. 

“Not  blowing,  at  least,”  said  Paul,  “but  sounding 
in  the  air  like  the  sea  sounds  in  the  shells.  It  was  a 
beautiful  night.  When  I had  listened  to  the  water  for 
a long  time,  I got  up  and  looked  out.  There  was  a boat 
over  there,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon  ; a boat  With  a 
sail.” 

The  child  looked  at  him  so  steadfastly,  and  spoke  so 
earnestly,  that  Mr.  Toots,  feeling  himself  called  upon 
to  say  something  about  this  boat,  said,  “ Smugglers.  ” 
But  with  an  impartial  remembrance  of  there  being  two 
sides  to  every  question,  he  added,  “Or  Preventive.” 

“A  boat  with  a sail,”  repeated  Paul,  “in  the  full 
light  of  the  moon.  The  sail  like  an  arm,  all  silver.  It 
went  away  into  the  distance,  and  what  do  you  think  it 
seemed  to  do  as  it  moved  with  the  waves  ? ” 

“ Pitch,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

“It  seemed  to  beckon,”  said  the  child,  “to  beckon 
me  to  come  ! — There  she  is  ! There  she  is  !” 

Toots  was  almost  beside  himself  with  dismay  at  this 
sudden  exclamation,  after  what  had  gone  before,  and 
cried  “ Who  ?” 

“ My  sister  Florence  ! ” cried  Paul,  “looking  up  here, 
and  waving  her  hand.  She  sees  me — she  sees  me  ! Good 
night,  dear,  good  night,  good  night.” 

His  quick  transition  to  a state  of  unbounded  pleasure, 
&s  he  stood  at  his  window,  kissing  and  clapping  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


495 


hands  : and  the  way  in  which  the  light  retreated  from  his 
features  as  she  passed  out  of  his  view,  and  left  a patient 
melancholy  on  the  little  face  : were  too  remarkable 
wholly  to  escape  even  Toots's  notice.  Their  interview 
being  interrupted  at  this  moment  by  a visit  from  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  who  usually  brought  her  black  skirts  to  bear 
upon  Paul  just  before  dusk,  once  or  twice  a week,  Toots 
had  no  opportunity  of  improving  the  occasion  ; but  it 
left  so  marked  an  impression  on  his  mind,  that  he  twice 
returned,  after  having  exchanged  the  usual  salutations, 
to  ask  Mrs.  Pipchin  how  she  did.  This  the  irascible 
old  lady  conceived  to  be  a deeply-devised  and  long- 
medi  tated  insult,  originating  in  the  diabolical  invention 
of  the  weak-eyed  young  man  down-stairs,  against  whom 
she  accordingly  lodged  a formal  complaint  with  Doctor 
Blimber  that  very  night  ; who  mentioned  to  the  young 
man  that  if  he  ever  did  it  again,  he  should  be  obliged 
to  part  with  him. 

The  evenings  being  longer  now,  Paul  stole  up  to  his 
window  every  evening  to  look  out  for  Florence.  She 
always  passed  and  repassed  at  a certain  time,  until  she 
saw  him  ; and  their  mutual  recognition  was  a gleam  of 
sunshine  in  Paul's  daily  life.  Often  after  dark,  one 
other  figure  walked  alone  before  the  doctor's  house.  He 
rarely  joined  them  on  the  Saturday  now.  He  could  not 
bear  it.  He  would  rather  come  unrecognised,  and  look 
up  at  the  windows  where  his  son  was  qualifying  for  a 
man  ; and  wait,  and  watch,  and  plan,  and  hope. 

Oh  ! could  he  but  have  seen,  or  seen  as  others  did,  the 
slight  spare  boy  above,  watching  the  waves  and  clouds 
at  twilight,  with  his  earnest  eyes,  and  breasting  the  win- 
dow of  his  solitary  cage  when  birds  flew  by,  as  if  he 
would  have  emulated  them,  and  soared  away  ! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Shipping  Intelligence  and  Office  Business. 

Mb.  Dombey’ s offices  were  in  a court  where  there  was 
an  old-established  stall  of  choice  fruit  at  the  corner  ; 
where  perambulating  merchants,  of  both  sexes,  offered 
for  sale  at  any  time  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  five, 
slippers,  pocket-books,  sponges,  dogs'  collars,  and  Wind- 
sor  soap ; and  sometimes  a pointer  or  an  oil-painting. 

The  pointer  always  came  that  way,  with  a view  to  the 
Stock  Exchange,  where  a sporting  taste  (originating  gen- 
erally in  bets  of  new  hats)  is  much  in  vogue.  The  other 
commodities  were  addressed  to  the  general  public  ; but 
they  were  never  offered  by  the  vendors  to  Mr.  Dombey. 


496 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


When  he  appeared,  the  dealers  iu  those  wares  fell  of? 
respectfully.  The  principal  slipper  and  dogs’  collar 
man — who  considered  himself  a public  character,  and 
whose  portrait  was  screwed  on  to  an  artist’s  door  in 
Cheapside — threw  up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his 
hat  as  Mr.  Dombey  went  by.  The  ticket-porter,  if  he 
were  not  absent  on  a job,  always  ran  officiously  before, 
to  open  Mr.  Dombey’s  office  door  as  wide  as  possible,  and 
hold  it  open,  with  his  hat  off,  while  he  entered. 

The  clerks  within  were  not  a whit  behind-hand  in 
their  demonstrations  of  respect.  A solemn  hush  pre- 
vailed, as  Mr.  Dombey  passed  through  the  outer  office. 
The  wit  of  the  Counting-House  became  in  a moment  as 
mute,  as  the  row  of  leathern  fire-buckets,  hanging  up 
behind  him.  Such  vapid  and  flat  day-light  as  filtered 
through  the  ground -glass  windows,  and  skylights,  leav 
ing  a black  sediment  upon  the  panes,  showed  the  books 
and  papers,  and  the  figures  bending  over  them,  envel 
oped  in  a studious  gloom,  and  as  much  abstracted  in  ap 
pearance,  from  the  world  without,  as  if  they  were  as 
sembled  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, ; while  a mouldy  little 
strong  room  in  the  obscure  perspective,  where  a shaded 
lamp  was  always  burning,  might  have  represented  the 
cavern  of  some  ocean-monster,  looking  on  with  a red  eye 
at  these  mysteries  of  the  deep. 

When  Perch,  the  messenger,  whose  place  was  on  a lit 
tie  bracket,  like  a time-piece,  saw  Mr.  Dombey  come  in 
— or  rather,  when  he  felt  that  he  was  coming,  for  he  had 
usually  an  instinctive  sense  of  his  approach — he  hurried 
into  Mr.  Dombey’s  room,  stirred  the  fire,  quarried  fresh 
coals  from  the  bowels  of  the  coal  box,  hung  the  news- 
paper to  air  upon  the  fender,  put  the  chair  ready, 
and  the  screen  in  its  place,  and  was  round  upon  his  heel 
on  the  instant  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  entrance,  to  take  his 
great-coat  and  hat,  and  hang  them  up.  Then  Perch 
took  the  newspaper,  and  gave  it  a turn  or  two  in  his 
hands  before  the  fire,  and  laid  it,  deferentially,  at  Mr. 
Dombey’s  elbow.  And  so  little  objection  had  Perch  to 
doing  deferential  in  the  last  degree,  that  if  he  might 
have  laid  himself  at  Mr.  Dombey’s  feet,  or  might  have 
called  him  by  some  such  title  as  used  to  be  bestowed 
upon  the  Caliph  Haroun  Alraschid,  he  would  have  been 
all  the  better  pleased. 

As  this  honour  would  have  been  an  innovation  and  an 
experiment,  Perch  was  fain  to  content  himself  by  ex- 
pressing as  well  as  he  could,  in  his  manner,  You  are  the 
light  of  my  Eyes.  You  are  the  Breath  of  my  Soul. 
You  are  the  commander  of  the  Faithful  Perch  ! Writh 
this  imperfect  happiness  to  cheer  him,  he  would  shut 
the  door  softly,  walk  away  on  tiptoe,  and  leave  his  great 
chief  to  be  stared  at,  through  a dome-shaped  window  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


497 


the  leads,  by  ugly  chimney  pots  and  backs  of  houses, 
and  especially  by  the  bold  window  of  a hair-cutting 
saloon  on  a first  floor,  where  a waxen  effigy,  bald  as  a 
Mussulman  in  the  morning,  and  covered  after  eleven 
o’clock  in  the  day*  with  luxuriant  hair  and  whiskers  in 
the  latest  Christian  fashion,  showed  him  the  wrong  side 
of  its  head  for  ever. 

Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  common  world,  as  it 
was  accessible  through  the  medium  of  the  outer  office— 
to  which  Mr.  Dombey’s  presence  in  his  own  room  may  be 
said  to  have  struck  like  damp,  or  cold  air— there  were 
two  degrees  of  descent.  Mr.  Carker  in  his  own  office 
was  the  first  step  ; Mr.  Morfin,  in  his  own  office,  was 
the  second.  Each  of  these  gentlemen  occupied  a little 
chamber  like  a bath-room,  opening  from  the  passage 
outside  Mr.  Dombey’s  door.  Mr.  Carker,  as  Grand 
Vizier,  inhabited  the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  Sul- 
tan. Mr.  Morfin,  as  an  officer  of  inferior  state,  inhabited 
the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  clerks. 

The  gentleman  last  mentioned  was  a cheerful-looking 
hazel-eyed  elderly  bachelor : gravely  attired,  as  to  his 
upper  man,  in  black  ; and  as  to  his  legs,  in  pepper  and 
salt  colour.  His  dark  hair  was  just  touched'  here  and 
there  with  specks  of  gray,  as  though  the  tread  of  Time 
had  splashed  it : and  his  whiskers  were  already  white. 
He  had  a mighty  respect  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  rendered 
him  due  homage  ; but  as  he  was  of  a genial  temper  him- 
self, and  never  wholly  at  his  ease  in  that  stately  pres- 
ence, he  was  disquieted  by  no  jealousy  of  the  many 
conferences  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Carker,  and  felt  a secret 
satisfaction  in  having  duties  to  discharge,  which  rarely 
exposed  him  to  be  singled  out  for  such  distinction.  He 
was  a great  musical  amateur  in  his  way — after  business  ; 
and  had  a paternal  affection  for  his  violoncello,  which  was 
once  in  every  week  transported  from  Islington,  his  place 
of  abode,  to  a certain  club-room  hard  by  the  Bank,  where 
quartettes  of  the  most  tormenting  and  excruciating 
nature  were  executed  every  Wednesday  evening  by  a 
private  party.  Mr.  Carker  was  a gentleman  thirty-eight 
or  forty  years  old,  of  a florid  complexion,  and  with  two 
unbroken  rows  of  glistening  teeth,  whose  regularity  and 
whiteness  were  quite  distressing.  It  was  impossible  to 
escape  the  observation  of  them,  for  he  showed  them 
whenever  he  spoke ; and  bore  so  wide  a smile  upon  his 
countenance  (a  smile,  however,  very  rarely,  indeed,  ex- 
tending beyond  his  mouth),  that  there  was  something  in 
it  like  the  snarl  of  a cat.  He  affected  a stiff  white  cra- 
vat, after  the  example  of  his  principal,  and  was  always 
closely  buttoned  up  and  tightly  dressed.  His  manner 
towards  Mr.  Dombey  ^vf&s  deeply  conceived  and  perfectly 
expressed.  He  was  familiar  with  him,  in  the  very  ex- 


498 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tremity  of  liis  sense  of  the  distance  between  them.  te  Mr. 
Dombey,  to  a man  in  your  position  from  a man  in  mine, 
there  is  no  show  of  subservience  compatible  with  the 
transaction  of  business  between  us,  that  I should  think 
sufficient.  I frankly  tell  you,  sir,  I give  it  up  altogether. 
I feel  that  I could  not  satisfy  my  own  mind ; and  Hea- 
ven knows,  Mr.  Dombey,  you  can  afford  to  dispense  with 
the  endeavour.’ ’ If  he  had  carried  these  words  about 
with  him,  printed  on  a placard,  and  constantly  offered  it 
to  Mr.  Dombey’ s perusal  on  the  breast  of  his  coat,  he 
could  not  have  been  more  explicit  than  he  was. 

This  was  Carker  the  manager.  Mr.  Carker  the  junior, 
Walter’s  friend,  was  his  brother;  two  or  three  years 
older  than  he,  but  widely  removed  in  station.  The 
younger  brother’s  post  was  on  the  top  of  the  official  lad- 
der ; the  elder  brother’s  at  the  bottom.  The  elder 
brother  never  gained  a stave,  or  raised  his  foot  to  mount 
one.  Young  men  passed  above  his  head,  and  rose  and 
rose  ; but  he  was  always  at  the  bottom.  He  was  quite 
resigned  to  occupy  that  low  condition  : never  complained 
of  it : and  certainly  never  hoped  to  escape  from  it. 

“How  do  you  do  this  morning?”  said  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager,  entering  Mr.  Dombey’s  room  soon  after  his 
arrival  one  day  : with  a bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

“How  do  you  do,  Carker?”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
“Have  you  anything  there  for  me?” 

“I  don’t  know  that  I need  trouble  you,”  returned 
Carker,  turning  over  the  papers  in  his  hand.  “ You 
have  a committee  to-day  at  three,  you  know.” 

“ And  one  at  tliree^three  quarters,”  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

“Catch  you  forgetting  anything  !”  exclaimed  Carker, 
still  turning  over  his  papers.  “ If  Mr.  Paul  inherits 
your  memory,  he’ll  be  a troublesome  customer  in  the 
House.  One  of  you  is  enough.” 

“You  have  an  accurate  memory  of  your  own,”  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Oh  ! I”  returned  the  manager.  “ It’s  the  only  capi- 
tal of  a man  like  me.” 

Mr.  Dombey  did  not  look  less  pompous  or  at  all  dis- 
pleased, as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece, 
surveying  his  (of  course  unconscious)  clerk,  from  head 
to  foot.  The  stiffness  and  nicety  of  Mr.  Carker’s  dress, 
and  a certain  arrogance  of  manner,  either  natural  to  him 
or  imitated  from  a pattern  not  far  off,  gave  great  addi- 
tional effect  to  his  humility.  He  seemed  a man  who 
would  contend  against  the  power  that  vanquished  him, 
if  he  could,  but  who  was  utterly  borne  down  by  the 
greatness  and  superiority  of  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Is  Morfin  here?”  asked  Mr.  Dombey  after  a short 
pause,  during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  been  fluttering 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


499 


his  papers,  and  muttering  little  abstracts  of  their  con 
tents  to  himself. 

“ Mor fin’s  here/’  he  answered,  looking  up  with  his 
widest  and  most  sudden  smile  ; “humming  musical  re- 
collections— of  his  last  night’s  quartette  party,  I suppose 
— through  the  walls  between  us,  and  driving  me  half 
mad.  I wish  he’d  make  a bonfire  of  his  violoncello,  and 
burn  his  music  books  in  it.” 

“ You  respect  nobody,  Carker,  I think,”  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

“No?”  inquired  Carker,  with  another  wide  and  most 
feline  show  of  his  teeth.  “Weil!  Not  many  people  I 
believe.  I wouldn’t  answer,  perhaps,”  he  murmured, 
as  if  he  were  only  thinking  it,  “ for  more  than  one.” 

A dangerous  quality,  if  real  ,*  and  a not  less  dangerous 
one  if  feigned.  But  Mr.  Dombey  hardly  seemed  to 
think  so,  as  he  still  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  drawn 
up  to  bis  full  height,  and  looking  at  his  head-clerk  with 
a dignified  composure,  in  which  there  seemed  to  lurk  a 
stronger  latent  sense  of  power  than  usual. 

“ Talking  of  Morfin,”  resumed  Mr.  Carker,  taking 
out  one  paper  from  the  rest,  “ he  reports  a junior  dead 
in  the  agency  at  Barbados,  and  proposes  to  reserve  a 
passage  in  the  Son  and  Heir — she’ll  sail  in  a month  or  so 
— for  the  successor.  You  don’t  care  who  goes,  I sup- 
pose ? We  have  nobody  of  that  sort  here.” 

Mr.  Dombey  shook  his  head  with  supreme  indiffer- 
ence. 

“ It’s  no  very  precious  appointment,”  observed  Mr. 
Carker,  taking  up  a pen,  with  which  to  endorse  a mem- 
orandum on  the  back  of  the  paper.  “ I hope  he  may  be- 
stow it  on  some  orpiian  nephew  of  a musical  friend.  It 
may  perhaps  stop  his  fiddle-playing,  if  he  has  a gift  that 
way.  Who’s  that  ? Come  in  ! ” 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carker.  I didn’t  know  you 
were  here,  sir,”  answered  Walter,  appearing  with  some 
letters  in  his  hand,  unopened,  and  newly  arrived.  “Mr. 
Carker  the  junior,  sir — ” 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
was,  or  affected  to  be,  touched  to  the  quick  with  shame 
and  humiliation.  He  cast  his  eyes  full  on  Mr.  Dombey 
with  an  altered  and  apologetic  look,  abased  them  on  the 
ground,  and  remained  for  a moment  without  speaking. 

“ I thought,  sir,”  he  said  suddenly  and  angrily,  turn- 
ing on  Walter,  “ that  you  had  been  before  requested  not 
to  drag  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  into  your  conversation.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  returned  Walter.  “I  was  only 
going  to  say  that  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  had  told  me  he 
believed  you  were  gone  out,  or  I should  not  have  knocked 
at  the  door  when  you  were  engaged  with  Mr.  Dombey. 
These  are  letters  for  Mr.  Dombey,  sir.” 


500 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“Very  well,  sir/’  returned  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
plucking  them  sharply  from  his  hand.  “ Go  about  you? 
business.  ” 

But  in  taking  them  with  so  little  ceremony,  Mr.  Car* 
ker  dropped  one  on  the  floor,  and  did  not  see  what  he 
had  done  ; neither  did  Mr.  Dombey  observe  the  letter 
lying  near  his  feet.  Walter  hesitated  for  a moment, 
thinking  that  one  or  the  other  of  them  would  notice  it ; 
but  finding  that  neither  did,  he  stopped,  came  back, 
picked  it  up,  and  laid  it  himself  on  Mr.  Dombey’s  desk. 
The  letters  were  post-letters  ; and  it  happened  that  the 
one  in  question  was  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  regular  report,  di- 
rected as  usual — for  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  but  an  indifferent 
pen-woman — by  Florence.  Mr.  Dombey  having  his  at- 
tention silently  called  to  this  letter  by  Walter,  started, 
and  looked  fiercely  at  him,  as  if  he  believed  that  he  had 
purposely  selected  it  from  all  the  rest. 

“You  can  leave  the  room,  sir!”  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
haughtily. 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand  ; and  having  watched 
Walter  out  at  the  door,  put  it  in  his  pocket  without 
breaking  the  seal. 

“ You  want  somebody  to  send  to  the  West  Indies,  you 
were  saying,”  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  hurriedly. 

“Yes,”  replied  Carker. 

“ Send  young  Gay.” 

“ Good,  very  good  indeed.  Nothing  easier,”  said  Mr. 
Carker,  without  any  show  of  surprise,  and  taking  up  the 
pen  to  re- indorse  the  letter,  as  coolly  as  he  had  done  be- 
fore. “ ‘ Send  young  Gay/  ” 

“Call  him  back,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  was  quick  to  do  so,  and  Walter  was  quick 
to  return. 

“Gay,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  a little  to  look  at 
him  over  his  shoulder.  “ Here  is  a — ” 

“ An  opening,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth 
stretched  to  the  utmost. 

“ In  the  West  Indies.  At  Barbados.  I am  going  to 
send  you,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  scorning  to  embellish  the 
bare  truth,  “ to  fill  a junior  situation  in  the  counting- 
house  at  Barbados.  Let  your  uncle  know  from  me,  that 
I have  chosen  you  to  go  to  the  West  Indies/’ 

Walter’s  breath  was  so  completely  taken  away  by  his 
astonishment,  that  he  could  hardly  find  enough  for  the 
repetition  of  the  words  “West  Indies.” 

“Somebody  must  go,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “and  you 
are  young  and  healthy,  and  your  uncle’s  circumstances 
are  not  good.  Tell  your  uncle  that  you  are  appointed. 
You  will  not  go  yet.  There  will  be  an  interval  of  a 
month — or  two  perhaps.” 

“ Shall  I remain  there,  sir?”  inquired  Walter. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


501 


€<  Will  you  remain  there,  sir  ! 99  repeated  Mr.  Dombey, 
turning  a little  more  round  towards  liim.  “ What  do 
you  mean  ? What  does  he  mean,  Carker  ? ” 

“ Live  there,  sir,”  faltered  Walter. 

f<  Certainly,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

Walter  bowed. 

“ That's  all,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  his  letters. 
“ You  will  explain  to  him  in  good  time  about  the  usual 
outfit  and  so  forth,  Carker,  of  course.  He  needn't  wait, 
Carker.  ” 

“ You  needn't  wait,  Gay,”  observed  Mr.  Carker  : bare 
to  the  gums. 

“ Unless,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  in  his  reading 
without  looking  off  the  letter,  and  seeming  to  listen. 
“ Unless  he  has  anything  to  say.'' 

“ No,  sir,”  returned  Walter,  agitated  and  confused, 
and  almost  stunned,  as  an  infinite  variety  of  pictures 
presented  themselves  to  his  mind  ; among  which  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  in  his  glazed  hat,  transfixed  with  astonish- 
ment at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  and  his  uncle  bemoaning  his 
loss  in  the  little  back  parlour,  held  prominent  places. 

I hardly  know — I — I am  much  obliged,  sir.” 

He  needn't  wait,  Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

And  as  Mr.  Carker  again  echoed  the  words,  and  also 
eollected  his  papers  as  if  he  were  going  away  too,  Wal- 
ter felt  that  his  lingering  any  longer  would  be  an  unpar- 
donable intrusion — especially  as  he  had  nothing  to  say — 
and  therefore  walked  out  quite  confounded. 

Going  along  the  passage,  with  the  mingled  conscious- 
ness and  helplessness  of  a dream,  he  heard  Mr.  Dombey's 
door  shut  again,  as  Mr.  Carker  came  out  ; and  immedi- 
ately afterwards  that  gentleman  called  to  him. 

“ Bring  your  friend  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  to  my  room, 
sir,  if  you  please.” 

Walter  went  to  the  outer  office  and  apprised  Mr.  Car- 
ker the  junior  of  his  errand,  who  accordingly  came  out 
from  behind  a partition  where  he  sat  alone  in  one  corner, 
and  returned  with  him  to  the  room  of  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager. 

That  gentleman  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
and  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  looking  over  his  white 
cravat,  as  unpromisingly  as  Mr.  Dombey  himself  could 
have  looked.  He  received  them  without  any  change  in 
his  attitude  or  softening  of  his  harsh  and  black  expres- 
sion: merely  signing  to  Walter  to  close  the  door. 

“ John  Carker,”  said  the  manager,  when  this  was 
done,  turning  suddenly  upon  his  brother,  with  his  two 
rows  of  teeth  bristling  as  if  he  would  have  bitten  him, 
“ what  is  the  league  between  you  and  this  young  man, 
in  virtue  of  which  I am  haunted  and  hunted  by  the 
mention  of  your  name  ? Is  it  not  enough  for  you,  John 


502 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Carker,  that  I am  your  near  relation  and  can’t  detach 
myself  from  that — ” 

“ Say  disgrace,  James,”  interposed  the  other  in  a low 
voice,  finding  that  he  stammered  for  a word.  “ You 
mean  it,  and  have  reason,  say  disgrace.” 

“ From  that  disgrace,”  assented  his  brother,  with 
keen  emphasis,  “but  is  the  fact  to  be  blurted  out  and 
trumpeted,  and  proclaimed  continually  in  the  presence 
of  the  very  house  ! In  moments  of  confidence  too  ? Bo 
you  think  your  name  is  calculated  to  harmonise  in  this 
place  with  trust  and  confidence,  John  Carker  ? ” 

“No,”  returned  the  other.  “ No,  James.  God  knows 
I have  no  such  thought.  ” 

“What  is  your  thought  then?”  said  his  brother,  “and 
why  do  you  thrust  yourself  in  my  way  ? Haven’t  you 
injured  me  enough  already?” 

“ I have  never  injured  you,  James,  willfully.” 

“ You  are  my  brother,”  said  the  manager.  “That’s 
injury  enough.” 

“ I wish  I could  undo  it,  James.” 

“ I wish  you  could  and  would.” 

During  this  conversation,  Walter  had  looked  from  one 
brother  to  the  other,  with  pain  and  amazement.  He 
who  was  the  senior  in  years,  and  junior  iti  the  house, 
stood,  with  his  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  his  head 
bowed,  humbly  listening  to  the  reproaches  of  the  other. 
Though  these  were  rendered  very  bitter  by  the  tone  and 
look  with  which  they  were  accompanied,  and  by  the 
presence  of  Walter  whom  they  so  much  surprised  and 
shocked,  he  entered  no  other  protest  against  them  than 
by  slightly  raising  his  right  hand  in  a deprecatory  man- 
ner, as  if  he  would  have  said  “Spare  me  !”  So,  had 
they  been  blows,  and  he  a brave  man,  under  strong  con- 
straint, and  weakened  by  bodily  suffering,  he  might  have 
stood  before  the  executioner. 

Generous  and  quick  in  all  his  emotions,  and  regarding 
himself  as  the  innocent  occasion  of  these  taunts,  Wah 
ter  now  struck  in,  with  all  the  earnestness  he  feltr^ 

“ Mr.  Carker,”  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  man- 
ager. “Indeed,  indeed,  this  is  my  fault  solely.  In  a 
kind  of  heedlessness  for  which  I cannot  blame  mvselt 
enough,  I have,  I have  no  doubt,  mentioned  Mr.  Carkei 
the  junior  much  often er  than  was  necessary  ; and  have 
allowed  his  name  sometimes  to  slip  through  my  lips, 
when  it  was  against  your  express  wish.  But  it  has  been 
my  own  mistake,  sir.  We  have  never  exchanged  on€ 
word  upon  the  subject — very  few,  indeed,  upon  any  sub. 
ject.  And  it  has  not  been,”  added  Walter  after  a mo- 
ment’s pause,  “all  heedlessness  on  my  part,  sir;  for  ] 
have  felt  an  interest  in  Mr.  Carker  ever  since  I have  been 


— Dombey  and  Son,  Yol.  Eleven,  page  503^ 


504 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


here,  and  liave  hardly  been  able  to  help  speaking  of  hina 
sometimes,  when  I have  thought  of  him  so  much  ! " 

Walter  said  this  from  his  soul,  and  with  the  very  breath 
of  honour.  For  he  looked  upon  the  bowed  head,  and  the 
downcast  eyes,  and  upraised  hand,  and  thought,  * I have 
felt  it ; and  why  should  I not  avow  it  in  behalf  of  this: 
unfriended,  broken  man  ! " 

“In  truth  you  have  avoided  me,  Mr.  Carker,"  said 
Walter,  with  the  tears  rising  to  his  eyes  ; so  true  was  his 
compassion.  “I  know  it  to  my  disappointment  and  re- 
gret. When  I first  came  here,  and  ever  since,  I am  sure 
I have  tried  to  be  as  much  your  friend  as  one  of  my  age 
could  presume  to  be  ; but  it  has  been  of  no  use." 

“And  observe/'  said  the  manager,  taking  him  up 
quickly,  “it  will  be  of  still  less  use,  Gay,  if  you  persist 
in  forcing  Mr.  John  Carker’ s name  on  people's  attention. 
That  is  not  the  way  to  befriend  Mr.  John  Carker.  Ask 
him  if  he  thinks  it  is." 

“ It  is  no  service  to  me,"  said  the  brother.  “ It  only 
leads  to  such  a conversation  as  the  present,  which  I need 
not  say  I could  have  well  spared.  No  one  can  be  a bet- 
ter friend  to  me  : " he  spoke  here  very  distinctly,  as  if 
he  would  impress  it  upon  Walter  : “ than  in  forgetting 
me,  and  leaving  me  to  go  my  way,  unquestioned  and  un- 
noticed." 

“Your  memory  not  being  retentive,  Gay,  of  what  you 
are  told  by  others,"  said  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  warm- 
ing himself  with  great  and  increased  satisfaction,  “ I 
thought  it  well  that  you  should  be  told  this  from  the 
best  authority,"  nodding  towards  his  brother.  “ You 
are  not  likely  to  forget  it  now,  I hope.  That's  all,  Gay„ 
You  can  go." 

Walter  passed  out  at  the  door  and  was  about  to  close 
it  after  him,  when  hearing  the  voice  of  the  brothers  again, 
and  also  the  mention  of  his  own  name,  he  stood  irreso 
lutely,  with  his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  the  door  ajar, 
uncertain  whether  to  return  or  go  away.  In  this  position 
he  could  not  help  overhearing  what  followed. 

“ Think  of  me  more  leniently,  if  you  can,  James,"  said 
John  Carker,  “ when  I tell  you  I have  had— how  could  1 
help  having,  with  my  history,  written  here" — striking 
himself  upon  the  breast,  “ my  whole  heart  awakened  by 
my  observation  of  that  boy,  Walter  Gay.  I saw  in  him 
when  he  first  came  here,  almost  my  other  self." 

“ Your  other  self  1 " repeated  the  manager,  disdainfully 

“ Not  as  1 am,  but  as  I was  when  I first  came  here  too  ; 
&s  sanguine,  giddy,  youthful,  inexperienced  ; flushed 
with  the  same  restless  and  adventurous  fancies  ; and  full 
of  the  same  qualities,  fraught  with  the  same  capacity  of 
leading  on  to  good  or  evil,"  t 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


505 


e(  I hope  not,”  said  his  brother,  with  some  hidden  and 
sarcastic  meaning  in  his  tone. 

“ You  strike  me  sharply  ; and  your  hand  is  steady,  and 

?rour  thrust  is  very  deep,”  returned  the  other,  speaking 
or  so  Walter  thought)  as  if  some  cruel  weapon  actually 
stabbed  him  as  he  spoke.  ‘ ‘ I imagined  all  this  when 
lie  was  a boy.  I believed  it.  It  was  a truth  to  me.  I 
aaw  him  lightly  walking  on  the  edge  of  an  unseen  gulf 
where  so  many  others  walk  with  equal  gaiety,  and  from 
which — ” 

“ The  old  excuse,”  interrupted  his  brother  as  he  stirred 
the  fire.  “ So  many.  Go  on.  Say,  so  many  fall.” 

“ From  which  one  traveller  fell,”  returned  the  other, 
“ who  set  forward,  on  his  way,  a boy  like  him,  and  missed 
his  footing  more  and  more,  and  slipped  a little  and  a 
little  lower,  and  went  on  stumbling  still,  until  he  fell 
headlong  and  found  himself  below  a shattered  man. 
Think  what  I suffered  when  I watched  that  boy.” 

“ You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it,”  returned  the 
brother. 

“ Only  myself,”  he  assented  with  a sigh.  “I  don’t 
seek  to  divide  the  blame  or  shame.  ” 

“You  have  divided  the  shame,”  James  Carker  mut- 
tered through  his  teeth.  And  through  so  many  and  such 
close  teeth,  he  could  mutter  well. 

“ Ah  James,”  returned  his  brother,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  in  an  accent  of  reproach,  and  seeming,  by  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  to  have  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  “ I have  been,  since  then,  a useful  foil  to  you. 
You  have  trodden  on  me  freely  in  your  climbing  up. 
Don’t  spurn  me  with  your  heel  ! ” 

A dlence  ensued.  After  a time,  Mr.  Carker  the  man- 
ager was  heard  rustling  among  his  papers,  as  if  he 
had  resolved  to  bring  the  interview  to  a conclusion. 
At  the  same  time  his  brother  withdrew  nearer  to  the 
door. 

“That’s  ail,”  he  said.  “I  watched  him  with  such 
trembling  and  such  fear,  as  was  some  little  punishment 
to  me,  until  he  passed  the  place  where  I first  fell  ; and 
then,  ' ough  I had  been  his  father,  I believe  I never 
co  d nave  thanked  God  more  devoutly.  I didn’t  dare  to 
warn  him,  and  advise  him  : but  if  I had  seen  direct  cause, 
J would  have  shown  him  my  example.  I was  afraid  to 
be  seen  speaking  with  him,  lest  it  should  be  thought  I 
did  him  harm,  and  tempted  him  to  evil,  and  corrupted 
him  : or  lest  I really  should.  There  may  be  such  con- 
tagion in  me  ; I don’t  know.  Piece  out  my  history,  in 
connexion  with  young  Walter  Gay,  and  what  he  has 
made  me  feel,  and  think  of  me  more  leniently,  James,  if 
you  can.” 

With  these  words  he  came  out  to  where  Walter  was 
-V  Vol.  11 


506 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


standing.  He  turned  a little  paler  when  lie  saw  him 
there,  and  paler  yet  v/hen  Walter  caught  him  by  the 
hand,  and  said  in  a whisper  : 

“ Mr.  Carker,  pray  let  me  thank  you  ! Let  me  say  how 
much  I feel  for  you  ! How  sorry  X am  to  have  been  the 
unhappy  cause  of  all  this  ! How  X almost  look  upon  you 
now  as  my  protector  and  guardian  ! How  very,  very 
much,  X feel  obliged  to  you  and  pity  you  ! " said  Walter, 
squeezing  both  his  hands,  and  hardly  knowing,  in  his 
agitation,  what  he  did  or  said. 

Mr.  Mor fin's  room  being  close  at  hand  and  empty,  and 
the  door  wide  open,  they  moved  thither  by  one  accord  ; 
the  passage  being  seldom  free  from  some  one  passing  to 
or  fro.  When  they  were  there,  and  Walter  saw  in  Mr. 
Carker’s  face  some  traces  of  the  emotion  within,  he  al- 
most felt  as  if  he  had  never  seen  the  face  before  ; it  was 
so  greatly  changed. 

“ Walter,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
“ X am  far  removed  from  you,  and  may  X ever  be.  Do 
you  know  what  X am  ? " 

“ What  you  are  ! " appeared  to  hang  on  Walter's  lips, 
as  he  regarded  him  attentively. 

“ It  was  begun,"  said  Carker,  “before  my  twenty-first 
birthday-led  up  to,  long  before,  but  not  begun  till  near 
that  time.  X had  robbed  them  when  X came  of  age.  t 
robbed  them  afterwards.  Before  my  twenty-second  birth- 
day, it  was  all  found  out ; and  then,  Walter,  from  all 
men’s  society,  X died." 

Again  his  last  few  words  hung  trembling  upon  Walter’s 
lips,  but  he  could  neither  utter  them,  nor  any  of  his  own. 

“The  House  was  very  good  to  me.  May  Heaven 
reward  the  old  man  for  his  forbearance  ! This  one,  too, 
his  son,  who  was  then  newly  in  the  firm,  where  I had 
held  great  trust ! 1 was  called  into  that  room  which  is 

now  his — X have  never  entered  it  since — and  came  out 
what  you  know  me.  For  many  years  I sat  in  my  present 
seat,  alone  as  now,  but  then  a known  and  recognized  ex- 
ample to  the  rest.  They  were  all  merciful  to  me,  and  I 
lived.  Time  has  altered  that  part  of  my  poor  expiation  , 
and  I think,  except  the  three  heads  of  the  House,  there 
is  no  one  here  who  knows  my  story  rightly.  Before  the 
little  boy  grows  up,  and  has  it  told  to  him,  my  corner  may 
be  vacant.  I would  rather  that  it  might  be  so  ! This  is 
the  only  change  to  me  since  that  day,  when  X left  all 
youth,  and  hope,  and  good  men’s  company,  behind  me 
in  that  room.  God  bless  you,  Walter  ! iteep  you,  and 
all  dear  to  you,  in  honesty,  or  strike  them  dead  ! " 

Some  recollection  of  his  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
as  if  with  excessive  cold,  and  of  his  bursting  into  tears, 
was  all  that  Walter  could  add  to  this,  when  he  tried  to 
recall  exactly  what  had  passed  between  them. 


D0JV1  BEY  AND  SON. 


507 


When  Walter  saw  him  next,  he  was  bending  over  his 
desk,  in  his  old  silent,  drooping,  humbled  way.  Then, 
observing  him  at  liis  work,  and  feeling  how  resolved  he 
evidently  was  that  no  further  intercourse  should  arise 
between  them,  and  thinking  again  and  again  on  all  he 
had  seen  and  heard  that  morning  in  so  short  a time,  in 
connexion  with  the  history  of  both  the  Carkers,  Walter 
could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  under  orders  for  the 
West  Indies,  and  would  soon  be  lost  to  Uncle  Sol,  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  and  to  glimpses  few  and  far  between  of 
Florence  Dombey — no,  he  meant  Paul — and  to  all  he 
loved  and  liked,  and  looked  for,  in  his  daily  life. 

But  it  was  true,  and  the  news  had  already  penetrated 
to  the  outer  office  ; for  while  he  sat  with  a heavy  heart, 
pondering  on  these  things,  and  resting  his  head  upon  his 
arm,  Perch,  the  messenger,  descending  from  his  mahog- 
any bracket,  and  jogging  his  elbow,  begged  his  pardon, 
but  wished  to  say  in  his  ear,  Did  he  think  he  could  ar- 
range to  send  home  to  England  a jar  of  preserved  ginger, 
cheap,  for  Mrs.  Perch’s  own  eating,  in  the  course  of  her 
recovery  from  her  next  confinement  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Paul  grows  more  and  more  Old-fashioned,  and  goes  Home  for  the  Holi- 
days. 

When  the  Midsummer  vacation  approached,  no  inde- 
cent manifestations  of  joy  were  exhibited  by  the  leaden- 
eyed young  gentlemen  assembled  at  Doctor  Blimber’s. 
Any  such  violent  expression  as  “breaking  up,”  would 
have  been  quite  inapplicable  to  that  polite  establish- 
ment. The  young  gentlemen  oozed  away,  semi-annually, 
to  their  own  homes  ; but  they  never  broke  up.  They 
would  have  scorned  the  action. 

Tozer,  who  was  constantly  galled  and  tormented  by  a 
starched  white  cambric  neck -kerchief,  which  he  wore  at 
the  express  desire  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  his  parent,  who,  de- 
signing him  for  the  Church,  was  of  opinion  that  he 
couldn’t  be  in  that  forward  state  of  preparation  too  soon 
—Tozer  said,  indeed,  that  choosing  between  two  evils, 
he  thought  he  would  rather  stay  where  he  wras  than  go 
home.  However  inconsistent  this  declaration  might  ap- 
pear with  that  passage  in  Tozer’s  Essay  on  the  subject, 
wherein  he  had  observed  “ that  the  thoughts  of  home 
and  ail  its  recollections,  awakened  in  his  mind  the  most 
pleasing  emotions  of  anticipation  and  delight,”  and  had 
also  likened  himself  to  a Roman  general,  flushed  with  a 
recent  victory  over  the  Iceni,  or  laden  with  Carthaginian 
spoil,  advancing  within  a few/  hours’  march  of  the  Capb 


508 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tol,  presupposed,  for  tlie  purposes  of  the  simile,  to  b© 
the  dwelling-place  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  still  it  was  very  sin* 
cerely  made.  For  it  seemed  that  Tozer  had  a dreadful 
uncle,  who  not  only  volunteered  examinations  of  him,  in 
the  holidays,  on  abstruse  points,  but  twisted  innocent 
events  and  things,  and  wrenched  them  to  the  same  fell 
purpose.  So  that  if  this  uncle  took  him  to  the  play,  or, 
on  a similar  pretence  of  kindness,  carried  him  to  see  a 
giant,  or  a dwarf,  or  a conjuror,  or  anything,  Tozer  knew 
he  had  read  up  some  classical  allusion  to  the  subject  be- 
forehand, and  was  thrown  into  a state  of  mortal  appre- 
hension : not  foreseeing  where  he  might  break  out,  or 
what  authority  he  might  not  quote  against  him. 

As  to  Briggs,  Ms  father  made  no  show  of  artifice  about 
it.  He  never  would  leave  him  alone.  So  numerous  and 
severe  were  the  mental  trials  of  that  unfortunate  youth 
in  vacation  time,  that  the  friends  of  the  family  (then 
resident  near  Bayswater,  London)  seldom  approached 
the  ornamental  piece  of  water  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
without  a vague  expectation  of  seeing  Master  Briggs's 
hat  floating  on  the  surface,  and  an  unfinished  exercise 
lying  on  the  bank.  Briggs,  therefore,  was  not  at  all 
sanguine  on  the  subject  of  holidays ; and  these  two 
sharers  of  little  Paul’s  bedroom  were  so  fair  a sample  of 
the  young  gentlemen  in  general,  that  the  most  elastic 
among  them  contemplated  the  arrival  of  those  festive 
periods  with  genteel  resignation. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  little  Paul.  The  end  of 
these  first  holidays  was  to  witness  his  separation  from 
Florence,  but  who  ever  looked  forward  to  the  end  of 
holidays  whose  beginning  was  not  yet  come  ! Not  Paul, 
assuredly.  As  the  happy  time  drew  near,  the  lions  and 
tigers  climbing  up  the  bedroom  wails,  became  quite  tame 
and  frolicsome.  The  grim  sly  faces  in  the  squares  and 
diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth,  relaxed  and  peeped  out  at 
him  with  less  wicked  eyes.  The  grave  old  clock  had 
more  of  personal  interest  in  the  tone  of  its  formal  in- 
quiry ; and  the  restless  sea  went  rolling  on  all  night  to 
the  sounding  of  a melancholy  strain — yet  it  was  pleasant 
too-— that  rose  and  fell  with  the  waves,  and  rocked  him, 
as  it  were,  to  sleep. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  seemed  to  think  that  he,  too,  would 
enjoy  the  holidays  very  much.  Mr.  Toots  projected  a 
life  of  holidays  from  that  time  forth  ; for,  as  he  regularly 
informed  Paul  every  day,  it  was  his  “ last  half  ” at  Doc- 
tor Blimber’s,  and  lie  was  going  to  begin  to  come  into 
his  property  directly. 

It  was  perfectly  understood  between  Paul  and  Mr. 
Toots,  that  they  were  intimate  friends,  notwithstanding 
their  distance  in  point  of  years  and  station.  As  the  va- 
cation approached,  and  Mr.  Toots  breathed  harder  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


509 


Stared  oftener  in  Paul's  society,  than  he  had  done  before, 
Paul  knew  that  he  meant  he  was  sorry  they  were  going 
to  lose  sight  of  each  other,  and  felt  very  much  obliged 
to  him  for  his  patronage  and  good  opinion. 

It  was  even  understood  by  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  as  well  as  by  the  young  gentle- 
men in  general,  that  Toots  had  somehow  constituted 
himself  protector  and  guardian  of  Dombey,  and  the  cir- 
cumstance became  so  notorious,  even  to  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
that  the  good  old  creature  cherished  feelings  of  bitter- 
ness and  jealousy  against  Toots  ; and,  in  the  sanctuary 
of  her  own  home,  repeatedly  denounced  him  as  “a 
chuckleheaded  noodle."  Whereas  the  innocent  Toots 
had  no  more  idea  of  awakening  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wrath, 
than  he  had  of  any  other  definite  possibility  or  proposi- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  he  was  disposed  to  consider  her 
rather  a remarkable  character,  with  many  points  of  in- 
terest about  her.  For  this  reason  he  smiled  on  her  with 
so  much  urbanity,  and  asked  her  how  she  did,  so  often, 
in  the  course  of  her  visits  to  little  Paul,  that  at  last  she 
one  night  told  him  plainly,  she  wasn't  used  to  it,  what- 
ever he  might  think  ; and  she  could  not,  and  she  would 
not  bear  it,  either  from  himself  or  any  other  puppy  then 
existing  ; at  which  unexpected  acknowledgment  of  his 
civilities,  Mr.  Toots  was  so  alarmed  that  he  secreted  him- 
self in  a retired  spot  until  she  had  gone.  Nor  did  he 
ever  again  face  the  doughty  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  Doctor 
Blimber's  roof. 

They  were  within  two  or  three  weeks  of  the  holidays, 
when,  one  day,  Cornelia  Blimber  called  Paul  into  her 
room,  and  said,  “ Dombey,  I am  going  to  send  home  your 
analysis.  " 

“ Thank  you,  ma’am,"  returned  Paul. 

“ You  know  what  I mean,  do  you,  Dombey?  " inquired 
Miss  Blimber,  looking  hard  at  him  through  the  specta- 
cles. 

**  No.  ma'am.”  said  Paul. 

“ Dombey,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  “ I begin  to 
be  afraid  you  are  a sad  boy.  When  you  don't  know 
the  meaning  of  an  expression,  why  don’t  you  seek  for 
information  ?" 

“Mrs.  Pipchin  told  me  I wasn't  to  ask  questions,"  re 
turned  Paul. 

* “ I must  beg  you  not  to  mention  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  me, 

on  any  account,  Dombey,"  returned  Miss  Blimber.  “1 
couldn't  think  of  allowing  it.  The  course  of  study  here, 
is  very  far  removed  from  anything  of  that  sort.  A repe° 
tition  of  such  allusions  would  make  it  necessary  for  me 
to  request  to  hear  without  a mistake,  before  breakfast 
time  to-morrow  morning,  from  Verbum  personale  down 
to  simillima  cygno” 


510 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


didn’t  mean,  ma’am,”  began  little  Paul. 

“ I must  trouble  you  not  to  tell  me  that  you  didn’t 
mean,  if  you  please,  Dombey,”  said  Miss  Blimber,  wbo 
preserved  an  awful  politeness  in  her  admonitions. 
“That  is  a line  of  argument  I couldn’t  dream  of  per- 
mitting. ” 

Paul  felt  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  all,  so  he  only 
looked  at  Miss  Blimber’s  spectacles.  Miss  Blimber  hav- 
ing shaking  her  head  at  him  gravely,  referred  to  a paper 
lying  before  her. 

“ ‘ Analysis  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.’  If  my 
recollection  serves  me,”  said  Miss  Blimber  breaking  off, 
1S  the  word  analysis  as  opposed  to  synthesis,  is  thus  de- 
fined by  Walker  ‘The  resolution  of  an  object,  whether 
of  the  senses  or  of  the  intellect,  into  its  first  elements.* 
As  opposed  to  synthesis,  you  observe.  Now  you  know 
what  analysis  is,  Dombey.” 

Dombey  didn’t  seem  to  be  absolutely  blinded  by  the 
light  let  in  upon  his  intellect,  but  he  made  Miss  Blimber 
a little  bow. 

“ ‘ Analysis,’  resumed  Miss  Blimber,  casting  her  eye 
over  the  paper,  ‘of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.’  I 
find  that  the  natural  capacity  of  Dombey  is  extremely 
good  ; and  that  his  general  disposition  to  study  may  be 
stated  in  an  equal  ratio.  Thus  taking  eight  as  our 
standard  and  highest  number,  I find  these  qualities  in 
Dombey  stated  each  at  six  three-fourths  !” 

Miss  Blimber  paused  to  see  how  Paul  received  this 
news.  Being  undecided  whether  six  three-fourths, 
meant  six  pounds  fifteen,  or  sixpence  three  farthings,  or 
six  foot  three,  or  three  quarters  past  six,  or  six  some- 
things that  he  hadn’t  iearn’t  yet,  with  three  unknown 
something  elses  over,  Paul  rubbed  his  hands  and  looked 
straight  at  Miss  Blimber.  It  happened  to  answer  as 
well  as  anything  else  he  could  have  done  ; and  Cornelia 
proceeded. 

“ ‘ Violence  two.  Selfishness  two.  Inclination  to  low 
company,  as  evinced  in  the  case  of  a person  named 
Glubb,  originally  seven,  but  since  reduced.  Gentle- 
manly demeanour  four,  and  improving  with  advancing 
years.’  Now  what  I particularly  wish  to  call  your  at- 
tention to,  Dombey,  is  the  general  observation  at  the 
close  of  this  analysis.” 

Paul  set  himself  to  follow  it  with  great  care. 

“*  It  may  be  generally  observed  of  Dombey,’”  said 
Miss  Blimber,  reading  in  a loud  voice,  and  at  every 
second  word  directing  her  spectacles  towards  the  little 
figure  before  her : “‘that  his  abilities  and  inclinations 
are  good,  and  that  he  has  made  as  much  progress  as  un- 
der the  circumstances  could  have  been  expected.  But 
it  is  to  be  lamented  of  this  young  gentleman  that  he  is 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


511 


singular  (what  is  usually  termed  old-fasliioned)  in  his 
character  and  conduct,  and  that,  without  presenting  any- 
thing in  either  which  distinctly  calls  for  reprobation,  he 
is  often  very  unlike  other  young  gentlemen  of  his  age 
and  social  position/  Now  Dombey,”  said  Miss  Blimber,, 
iaying  down  the  paper,  *•  do  you  understand  that  ?” 

“ I think  I do,  ma’am,”  said  Paul. 

“ This  analysis,  you  see,  Dombey,”  Miss  Blimber  com 
tinned,  “is  going  to  be  sent  home  to  your  respected 
parent.  It  will  naturally  be  very  painful  to  him  to  find 
that  you  are  singular  in  your  character  and  conduct.  It  is 
naturally  painful  to  us  ; for  we  can’t  like  you,  you  know, 
Dombey,  as  well  as  we  could  wish.” 

She  touched  the  child  upon  a tender  point.  He  had 
secretly  become  more  and  more  solicitous  from  day  to 
day,  as  the  time  of  his  departure  drew  more  near,  that 
all  the  house  should  like  him.  For  some  hidden  reasoa 
very  imperfectly  understood  by  himself — if  understood 
at  all — he  felt  a gradually  increasing  impulse  of  affec- 
tion, towards  almost  everything  and  everybody  in  the 
place.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  that  they  would  be 
quite  indifferent  to  him  when  he  was  gone.  He  wanted 
them  to  remember  him  kindly ; and  he  had  made  it  his 
business  even  to  conciliate  a great  hoarse  shaggy  dog, 
chained  up  at  the  back  of  the  house,  who  had  previously 
been  the  terror  of  his  life  : that  even  he  might  miss  him 
when  he  was  no  longer  there. 

Little  thinking  that  in  this,  he  only  showed  again 
the  difference  between  himself  and  his  compeers,  poor 
tiny  Paul  set  it  forth  to  Miss  Blimber  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  begged  her  in  despite  of  the  official  analysis, 
to  have  the  goodness  to  try  and  like  him.  To  Mrs. 
Blimber,  who  had  joined  them,  he  preferred  the  same 
petition  : and  when  that  lady  could  not  forbear,  even  in 
his  presence,  from  giving  utterance  to  her  often-re- 
peated opinion,  that  he  was  an  odd  child,  Paul  told  her 
that  he  was  sure  she  was  quite  right  ; that  he  thought 
it  must  be  his  bones,  but  he  didn’t  know  ; and  that  he 
hoped  she  would  overlook  it,  for  he  was  fond  of  them 
all. 

“ Not  so  fond,”  said  Paul,  with  a mixture  of  timidity 
and  perfect  frankness,  which  was  one  of  the  most  pecu- 
liar and  most  engaging  qualities  of  the  child,  “not  so 
fond  as  I am  of  Florence,  of  course  : that  could  never  be. 
You  couldn’t  expect  that,  could  you,  ma’am  ? ” 

“Oh!  the  old  fashioned  little  soul!”  cried  Mrs. 
Blimber  in  a whisper. 

“ But  I like  everybody  here  very  much,”  pursued  Paul, 
“and  I should  grieve  to  go  away,  and  think  that  any  one 
.Was  glad  that  I was  gone,  or  didn’t  care.” 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  now  quite  sure  that  Paul  was  the 


512 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


oddest  child  in  the  world  ; and  when  she  told  the  doc- 
tor what  had  passed,  the  doctor  did  not  controvert  his 
wife’s  opinion.  But  he  said,  as  he  had  said  before,  when 
Paul  first  came,  that  study  would  do  much  ; and  he  also 
said,  as  he  had  said  on  that  occasion,  “ Bring  him  on, 
Cornelia  ! Bring  him  on  ! ” 

Cornelia  had  always  brought  him  on  as  vigorously  aa 
she  could  ; and  Paul  had  had  a hard  life  of  it.  But 
over  and  above  his  getting  through  the  tasks,  he  had 
long  had  another  purpose  always  present  to  him, 
and  to  which  he  still  held  fast.  It  was,  to  be  a gentle, 
useful,  quiet  little  fellow,  always  striving  to  secure  the 
love  and  attachment  of  the  rest  ; and  though  he  was  yet 
often  to  be  seen  at  his  old  post  on  the  stairs,  or  watching 
the  waves  and  clouds  from  his  solitary  window,  he  was 
oftener  found,  too,  among  the  other  boys,  modestly  ren 
dering  them  some  little  voluntary  service.  Thus  it  came 
to  pass,  that  even  among  those  rigid  and  absorbed  young 
anchorites,  who  mortified  themselves  beneath  the  roof 
of  Doctor  Blimber,  Paul  was  an  object  of  general  inter- 
est ; a fragile  little  plaything  that  they  all  liked,  and  that 
no  one  would  have  thought  of  treating  roughly.  But 
he  could  not  change  his  nature,  or  rewrite  the  analy- 
sis ; and  so  they  all  agreed  that  Dombey  was  old-fash- 
ioned. 

There  were  some  immunities,  however,  attaching  to 
the  character  enjoyed  by  no  one  else.  They  could  have 
better  spared  a newer-fasliioned  child,  and  that  alone 
was  much.  When  the  others  only  bowed  to  Doctor 
Blimber  and  family  on  retiring  for  the  night,  Paul  would 
stretch  out  his  morsel  of  a hand,  and  boldly  shake  the 
doctor’s  ; also  Mrs.  Blimber’ s ; also  Cornelia’s.  If  any- 
body was  to  be  begged  off*  from  impending  punishment, 
Paul  was  always  the  delegate.  The  weak-eyed  young 
man  himself  had  once  consulted  him,  in  reference  to  a 
little  breakage  of  glass  and  china.  And  it  was  darkly 
rumoured  that  the  butler,  regarding  him  with  favour 
such  as  that  stern  man  had  never  shown  before  to  mortal 
boy,  had  sometimes  mingled  porter  with  his  table-beer 
to  make  him  strong. 

Over  and  above  these  extensive  privileges,  Paul  had 
free  right  of  entry  to  Mr.  Feeder’s  room,  from  which 
apartment  he  had  twice  led  Mr.  Toots  into  the  open  air, 
in  a state  of  faintness,  consequent  on  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  smoke  a very  blunt  cigar  : one  of  a bundle 
which  that  young  gentleman  had  covertly  purchased  on 
the  shingle  from  a most  desperate  smuggler,  who  had 
acknowledged,  % confidence,  that  two  hundred  pounds 
was  the  price  set  upon  his  head,  dead  or  alive,  by  tho 
Custom  House.  It  was  a fpiug  room,  Mr.  Feeder’s, 
with  his  bed  in  another  little  room  inside  of  it ; and  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


513 


flute,  which  Mr.  Feeder  couldn’t  play  yet,  but  was  go- 
ing to  make  a point  of  learning,  he  said,  hanging  up 
over  the  fire-place.  There  were  some  hooks  in  it,  too, 
and  a fishing-rod  ; for  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should  cer 
tainly  make  a point  of  learning  to  fish,  when  he  could 
find  time.  Mr.  Feeder  had  amassed,  with  similar  in- 
tentions, a beautiful  little  curly  second-hand  key-bugle, 
a chess-board  and  men,  a Spanish  Grammar,  a set  of 
sketching-materials,  and  a pair  of  boxing  gloves.  The 
art  of  self-defence  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should  undoubt- 
edly make  a point  of  learning,  as  he  considered  it  the 
duty  of  every  man  to  do  ; for  it  might  lead  to  the  protec 
tion  of  a female  in  distress. 

But  Mr.  Feeder’s  great  possession  was  a large  green 
jar  of  snuff,  which  Mr.  Toots  had  brought  down  as  a 
present,  at  the  close  of  the  last  vacation  ; and  for  which 
he  had  paid  a high  price,  as  having  been  the  genuine 
property  of  the  Prince  Regent.  Neither  Mr.  Toots  nor 
Mr.  Feeder  could  partake  of  this  or  any  other  snuff,  even 
in  the  most  stinted  and  moderate  degree,  without  being 
seized  with  convulsions  of  sneezing.  Nevertheless  it 
was  their  great  delight  to  moisten  a box-full  with  cold 
tea,  stir  it  up  on  a piece  of  parchment  with  a paper- 
knife,  and  devote  themselves  to  its  consumption  then 
and  there.  In  the  course  of  which  cramming  of  their 
noses,  they  endured  surprising  torments  with  the  con- 
stancy of  martyrs  : and  drinking  table-beer  at  intervals, 
felt  all  the  glories  of  dissipation. 

To  little  Paul  sitting  silent  in  their  company,  and  by 
the  side  of  his  chief  patron,  Mr.  Toots,  there  was  a dread 
charm  in  these  reckless  occasions  ; and  when  Mr.  Feeder 
spoke  of  the  dark  mysteries  of  London,  and  told  Mr. 
Toots  that  he  was  going  to  observe  it  himself  closely  in 
all  its  ramifications  in  the  approaching  holidays,  and  for 
that  purpose  had  made  arrangements  to  board  with  two 
old  maiden  ladies  at  Peckham,  Paul  regarded  him  as  if 
he  were  the  hero  of  some  book  of  travels  or  wild  adven- 
ture, and  was  almost  afraid  of  such  a slashing  person. 

Going  into  this  room  one  evening,  when  the  holidays 
were  very  near,  Paul  found  Mr.  Feeder  filling  up  th© 
blanks  in  some  printed  letters,  while  some  others,  already 
filled  up  and  strewn  before  him,  were  being  folded  and 
sealed  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr  Feeder  said,  “ Aha,  Dombey, 
there  you  are,  are  you  ?” — for  they  were  always  kind  to 
him,  and  glad  to  see  him — and  then  said,  tossing  one  of 
the  letters  towards  him,  “ And  there  you  are,  too,  Dom- 
bey.  That’s  yours.” 

“ Mine,  sir  ?”  said  Paul. 

“ Your  invitation,”  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

Paul,  looking  at  i't,  found,  in  copper-plate  print,  with 
the  exception  of  his  own  name  and  the  date,  which  were 


514 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  Mr.  Feeder's  penmanship,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blim~ 
her  requested  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  P.  Dombey's  company 
at  an  early  party  on  Wednesday  evening  the  seventeenth 
instant ; and  that  the  hour  was  half -past  seven  o'clock  ; 
and  that  the  object  was  quadrilles.  Mr.  Toots  also 
showed  him,  by  holding  up  a companion  sheet  of  paper, 
that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  requested  the  pleasure  of 
Mr.  Toots’s  company  at  an  early  party  on  Wednesday 
evening  the  seventeenth  instant,  when  the  hour  was 
half-past  seven  o'clock,  and  when  the  object  was  qua- 
drilles. He  also  found,  on  glancing  at  the  table  where 
Mr.  Feeder  sat,  that  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Briggs's  com- 
pany, and  of  Mr.  Tozer's  company,  and  of  every  young 
gentleman's  company,  was  requested  by  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Blimber  on  the  same  genteel  occasion. 

Mr.  Feeder  then  told  him,  to  his  great  joy,  that  his 
sister  was  invited,  and  that  it  was  a half-yearly  event, 
and  that,  as  the  holidays  began  that  day,  he  could  go 
away  with  his  sister  after  the  party,  if  he  liked,  which 
Paul  interrupted  him  to  say  he  would  like,  very  much. 
Mr.  Feeder  then  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  would 
be  expected  to  inform  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  in 
superfine  small-hand,  that  Mr.  P.  Dombey  would  be 
happy  to  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  them,  in  accord- 
ance with  their  polite  invitation.  Lastly,  Mr.  Feeder 
said,  he  had  better  not  refer  to  the  festive  occasion,  in 
the  hearing  of  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber ; as  these  pre- 
liminaries, and  the  whole  of  the  arrangements,  were 
conducted  on  principles  of  classicality  and  high  breed- 
ing ; and  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  young  gentlemen  on  the  other,  were  supposed, 
in  their  scholastic  capacities,  not  to  have  the  least  idea 
of  what  was  in  the  wind. 

Paul  thanked  Mr.  Feeder  for  these  hints,  and  pocket- 
ing his  invitation,  sat  down  on  a stool  by  the  side  of  Mr. 
Toots  as  usual.  But  Paul’s  head,  which  had  long  been 
ailing  more  or  less,  and  was  sometimes  very  heavy  and 
painful,  felt  so  uneasy  that  night,  that  he  was  obliged 
to  support  it  on  his  hand.  And  yet  it  dropped  so  that, 
by  little  and  little  it  sunk  on  Mr.  Toots's  knee,  and  rested 
there,  as  if  it  had  no  care  to  be  ever  lifted  up  again. 

That  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  deaf ; but  he 
must  have  been,  he  thought,  for,  by  and  by,  he  heard 
Mr.  Feeder  calling  in  his  ear,  and  gently  shaking  him  to 
rouse  his  attention.  And  when  he  raised  his  head,  quite 
scared,  and  looked  about  him,  he  found  that  Doctor 
Blimber  had  come  into  the  room  ; and  that  the  window 
was  ox>en,  and  that  his  forehead  was  wet  with  sprinkled 
water  , though  how  all  this  had  been  done  without  his 
knowledge,  was  very  curious  indeed. 

“ Ah  ! Come,  come  ! That's  well  ! How  is  my  little 
friend  now  ? ' ' said  Doctor  Blimber,  encouragingly. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


515 


“Oil,  quite  well,  thank  you,  sir,”  said  Paul. 

But  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with  the 
floor,  for  he  couldn’t  stand  upon  it  steadily  ; and.  with 
the  walls  too,  for  they  were  inclined  to  turn  round  and 
round,  and  could  only  be  stopped  by  being  looked  at  very 
hard  indeed.  Mr.  Toots’s  head  had  the  appearance  of 
being  at  once  bigger  and  farther  off  than  was  quite  nat- 
ural ; and  when  he  took  Paul  in  his  arms,  to  carry  him 
up-stairs,  Paul  observed  with  astonishment  that  the  door 
was  in  quite  a different  place  from  that  in  which  he  had 
expected  to  find  it,  and  almost  thought,  at  first,  that  Mr. 
Toots  was  going  to  walk  straight  up  the  chimney. 

It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Toots  to  carry  him  to  the  top 
of  the  house  so  tenderly  ; and  Paul  told  him  that  it  was. 
But  Mr.  Toots  said  that  he  would  do  a great  deal  more 
than  that,  if  he  could  ; and  indeed  he  did  more  as  it 
was  : for  he  helped  Paul  to  undress,  and  helped  him  to 
bed,  in  the  kindest  manner  possible,  and  then  sat  down 
by  the  bedside  and  chuckled  very  much  ; while  Mr. 
Feeder,  B.A.,  leaning  over  the  bottom  of  the  bedstead, 
set  all  the  little  bristles  on  his  head  bolt  upright  with 
his  bony  hands,  and  then  made  believe  to  spar  at  Paul 
with  great  science,  on  account  of  his  being  all  right 
again,  which  was  so  uncommonly  facetious,  and  kind  too 
in  Mr.  Feeder,  that  Paul,  not  being  able  to  make  up  his 
mind  whether  it  was  best  to  laugh  or  cry  at  him,  did 
both  at  once. 

How  Mr.  Toots  melted  away,  and  Mr.  Feeder  changed 
into  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Paul  never  thought  of  asking  ; neither 
was  he  at  all  curious  to  know  : but  when  he  saw  Mrs. 
Pipchin  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed  instead  of  Mr. 
Feeder,  he  cried  out,  “ Mrs.  Pipchin,  don’t  tell  Flor- 
ence ! ” 

“Don’t  tell  Florence  what,  my  little  Paul?”  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  coming  round  to  the  bedside,  and  sitting 
down  in  the  chair. 

“About  me,”  said  Paul. 

“No,  no,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

“ What  do  you  think  I mean  to  do  when  I grow  up, 
Mrs.  Pipchin  ? ” inquired  Paul,  turning  his  face  towards 
her  on  his  pillow,  and  resting  his  chin  wistfully  on  his 
folded  hands. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  couldn’t  guess. 

“ I mean,”  said  Paul,  “ to  put  my  money  all  together 
in  one  Bank,  never  try  to  get  any  more,  go  away  into  the 
country  with  my  darling  Florence,  have  a beautiful  gar- 
den, fields  and  woods,  and  live  there  with  her  all  my 
life  ! ” 

“ Indeed  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

“ Yes,”  said  Paul.  “ That’s  what  I mean  to  do,  when 
I — ” He  stopped,  and  pondered  for  a moment 


516 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mrs.  Pipchin’s  gray  eye  scanned  his  thoughtful  face. 

“ If  I grow  up,”  said  Paul.  Then  he  went  on  imme- 
diately to  tell  Mrs,  Pipchin  all  about  the  party,  about 
Florence’s  invitation,  about  the  pride  he  would  have 
in  the  admiration  that  would  be  felt  for  her  by  all  the 
boys,  about  their  being  so  kind  to  him  and  fond  of  him, 
about  his  being  so  fond  of  them,  and  about  his  being  so 
glad  of  it.  Then  he  told  Mrs.  Pipchin  about  the  analy* 
sis,  and  about  his  being  certainly  old-fashioned,  and  took 
Mrs.  Pipchin’s  opinion  on  that  point,  and  whether  she 
knew  why  it  was,  and  what  it  meant.  Mrs.  Pipchin  de- 
nied the  fact  altogether,  as  the  shortest  way  of  getting 
out  of  the  difficulty  ; but  Paul  was  far  from  satisfied 
with  that  reply,  and  looked  so  searchingly  at  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin for  a truer  answer,  that  she  was  obliged  to  get  up 
and  look  out  of  the  window  to  avoid  his  eyes. 

There  was  a certain  calm  apothecary,  who  attended  at 
the  establishment  when  any  of  the  young  gentlemen 
were  ill,  and  somehow  he,  got  into  the  room  and  appeared 
at  the  bedside,  with  Mrs.  Blimber.  How  they  came 
there,  or  how  long  they  had  been  there,  Paul  didn’t 
know  ; but  when  he  saw  them,  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and 
answered  all  the  apothecary’s  questions  at  full  length, 
and  whispered  to  him  that  Florence  was  not  to  know  any- 
thing  about  it  if  he  pleased,  and  that  he  had  set  his 
mind  upon  her  coming  to  the  party.  He  was  very  chatty 
with  the  apothecary,  and  they  parted  excellent  frienu.^. 
Lying  down  again  with  his  eyes  shut,  he  heard  the 
apothecary  say,  out  of  the  room  and  quite  a long  way  off 
— or  he  dreamed  it — that  there  was  a want  of  vital 
power  (what  was  that,  Paul  wondered  !)  and  great  con- 
stitutional weakness.  That  as  the  little  fellow  had  set 
his  heart  on  parting  with  his  schoolmates  on  the  seven- 
teenth, it  would  be  better  to  indulge  the  fancy  if  he 
grew  no  worse.  That  he  was  glad  to  hear  from  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  that  the  little  fellow  would  go  to  his  friends  in 
London  on  the  eighteenth.  That  he  would  write  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  when  he  should  have  gained  a better  know- 
ledge of  the  case,  and  before  that  day.  That  there  was 
no  immediate  cause  for — what?  Paul  lost  that  word. 
And  that  the  little  fellow  had  a fine  mind,  but  was  an 
old-fashioned  boy. 

What  old  fashion  could  that  be,  Paul  wondered  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  that  was  so  visibly  expressed  in  him  ; 
so  plainly  seen  by  so  many  people  ! 

He  could  neither  make  it  out,  nor  trouble  himself  long 
with  the  effort.  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  again  beside  him,  if 
she  had  ever  been  away  (he  thought  she  had  gone  out 
with  the  doctor,  but  it  was  all  a dream  perhaps),  and 
presently  a bottle  and  glass  got  into  her  hands  magically, 
and  she  poured  out  the  contents  for  him.  After  that,  £3 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


517 


had  some  real  good  jelly,  which  Mrs.  Blimber  brought 
to  him  herself  ; and  then  he  was  so  well,  that  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin  went  home,  at  his  urgent  solicitation,  and  Briggs 
and  Tozer  came  to  bed.  Poor  Briggs  grumbled  terribly 
about  his  own  analysis,  which  could  hardly  have  discom- 
posed him  more  if  it  had  been  a chemical  process  ; but 
he  was  very  good  to  Paul,  and  so  was  Tozer,  and  so  were 
all  the  rest,  for  they  every  one  looked  in  before  going  to 
bed,  and  said,  “ How  are  you  now,  Dombey  ?”  “ Cheer 

up,  little  Dombey  ! ” and  so  forth.  After  Briggshad  got 
into  bed,  he  lay  awake  for  a long  time,  still  bemoaning 
his  analysis,  and  saying  he  knew  it  was  all  wrong,  and. 
they  couldn’t  have  analysed  a murderer  worse,  and  how 
would  Doctor  Blimber  like  it  if  his  pocket-money  de- 
pended on  it  ? It  was  very  easy,  Briggs  said,  to  make  a 
galley-slave  of  a boy  all  the  half-year,  and  then  score 
him  up  idle  ; and  to  crib  two  dinners  a- week  out  of  his 
board,  and  then  score  him  up  greedy  ; but  that  wasn’t 
going  to  be  submitted  to,  he  believed,  was  it ! Oh  ! 
Ah  ! 

Before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  performed  on  the 
gong  next  morning,  he  came  up-stairs  to  Paul  and  told 
him  he  was  to  lie  still,  which  Paul  very  gladly  did.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  reappeared  a little  before  the  apothecary,  and  a 
little  after  the  good  young  woman  whom  Paul  had 
seen  cleaning  the  stove  on  tli& ' first  morning  (how  long 
ago  it  seemed  now  !)  had  brought  him  his  breakfast. 
There  was  another  consultation  a long  way  off,  or  else 
Paul  dreamed  it  again  ; and  then  the  apothecary,  coming 
oacK  vTith  Doctor  and  Mrs,  Blimber,  said  : 

“ Yes,  I think,  Doctor  Blimber,  we  may  release  this 
young  gentleman  from  his  books  just  now  ; the  vacation 
being  so  very  near  at  hand.” 

“By  all  means,”  said  Doctor  Blimber.  “My  love, 
you  will  inform  Cornelia,  if  you  please.” 

“Assuredly,”  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

The  apothecary  bending  down,  looked  closely  into 
Paul’s  eyes,  and  felt  his  head,  and  his  pulse,  and  his 
heart,  with  so  much  interest  and  care,  that  Paul  said, 
“ Thank  you,  sir.” 

“ Our  little  friend,”  observed  Doctor  Blimber,  “ has 
never  complain.” 

“Oh  no  P’  replied  the  apothecary.  “He  was  not 
likely  to  complain.” 

“You  find  him  greatly  better?”  said  Doctor  Blimber. 

“ Oh  ! He  is  greatly  better,  sir,”  returned  the  apothe- 
cary. 

Paul  had  begun  to  speculate,  in  his  own  odd  way,  on 
the  subject  that  might  occupy  the  apothecary’s  mind 
just  at  that  moment  ; so  musingly  had  he  answered  the 
two  questions  of  Doctor  Blimber.  But  the  apothecary 


618 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


happening  to  meet  his  little  patient’s  eyes,  as  the  latter 
set  off  on  that  mental  expedition,  and  coming  instantly 
out  of  his  abstraction  with  a cheerful  smile,  Paul  smiled 
in  return  and  abandoned  it. 

He  lay  in  bed  all  that  day,  dozing  and  dreaming,  and 
looking  at  Mr.  Toots  ; but  got  up  on  the  next,  and  went 
down-stairs.  Lo  and  behold,  there  was  something  the 
matter  with  the  great  clock  ; and  a workman  on  a pair 
of  steps  had  taken  its  face  off,  and  was  poking  instru- 
ments into  the  works  by  the  light  of  a candle  ! This 
was  a great  event  for  Paul,  who  sat  down  on  the  bottom 
stair,  and  watched  the  operation  attentively  : now  and 
then  glancing  at  the  clock  face,  leaning  all  askew, 
against  the  wall  hard  by,  and  feeling  a little  confused 
by  a suspicion  that  it  was  ogling  him. 

The  workman  on  the  steps  was  very  civil  ; and  as  he 
said,  when  he  observed  Paul,  “How  do  you  do,  sir?”' 
Paul  got  into  conversation  with  him,  and  told  him  he 
hadn’t  been  quite  well  lately.  The  ice  being  thus  broken 
Paul  asked  him  a multitude  of  questions  about  chimes 
and  clocks  : as,  whether  people  watched  up  in  the  lonely 
church  steeples  by  night  to  make  them  strike,  and  how 
the  bells  were  rung  when  people  died,  and  whether 
those  were  different  bells  from  wedding  bells,  or  only 
sounded  dismal  in  the  fancies  of  the  living.  Finding 
that  his  new  acquaintance  was  not  very  well  informed 
on  the  subject  of  the  curfew  bell  of  ancient  days,  Paul 
gave  him  an  account  of  that  institution  ; and  also  asked 
him  as  a practical  man,  what  he  thought  about  King 
Alfred’s  idea  of  measuring  time  by  the  burning  of  can- 
dles ; to  which  the  workman  replied,  that  he  thought  it 
would  be  the  ruin  of  the  clock  trade  if  it  was  to  come  up 
again.  In  fine,  Paul  looked  on,  until  the  clock  had  quite 
recovered  its  familiar  aspect,  and  resumed  its  sedate 
inquiry  ; when  'the  workman,  putting  away  his  tools 
in  a long  basket,  bade  him  good  day,  and  went  away. 
Though  not  before  he  had  whispered  something,  on  the 
door  mat,  to  the  footman,  in  which  there  was  the  phrase 
“ old-fashioned” — for  Paul  heard  it. 

What  could  that  old  fashion  be,  that  seemed  to  make 
the  people  sorry  i What  could  it  be  ’ 

Having  nothing  to  learn  now,  he  thought  of  this  fre 
quently  ; though  not  so  often  as  he  might  have  done,  if 
he  had  had  fewer  things  to  think  of.  But  he  had  a, 
great  many ; and  was  always  thinking,  all  day  long. 

First,  there  was  Florence  coming  to  the  party.  FI  or 
cnce  would  see  that  the  boys  were  fond  of  him  ; and 
that  would  make  her  happy.  This  was  his  great  theme 
Let  Florence  once  be  sure  that  they  were  gentle  and 
good  to  him,  and  that  he  had  become  a little  favourite 
among  and  then  she  would  always  think  of  the 


PAUL  ALSO  ASKED  HIM,  AS  A PRACTICAL  MAN,  WHAT  HE  THOUGHT 
ABOUT  KING  ALFRED’S  IDEA  OF  MEASURING  TIME  BY  THE 
BURNING  OF  CANDLES. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Eleven,  page  519. 


520 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


time  lie  had  passed  there,  without  being  very  sorry. 
Florence  might  be  all  the  happier  too  for  that,  perhaps, 
when  he  came  back. 

When  he  came  back  ! Fifty  times  a day,  his  noiseless 
little  feet  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room,  as  he  col- 
lected every  book,  and  scrap,  and  trifle  that  belonged  to 
him,  and  put  them  all  together  there,  down  to  the  mi- 
nutest thing,  for  taking  home  ! There  was  no  shade  of 
coming  back  on  little  Paul  ; no  preparation  for  it,  or 
other  reference  to  it,  grew  out  of  anything  he  thought 
or  did,  except  this  slight  one  in  connexion  with  his  sister. 
On  the  contrary,  he  had  to  think  of  everything  familiar 
to  him,  in  his  contemplative  moods  and  in  his  wander- 
ings about  the  house,  as  being  to  be  parted  with  ; and 
hence  the  many  things  he  had  to  think  of,  all  day 
long. 

He  had  to  peep  into  those  rooms  up- stairs,  and  think 
how  solitary  they  would  be  when  he  was  gone,  and 
wonder  through  how  many  silent  days,  weeks,  months, 
and  years,  they  would  continue  just  as  grave  and  undis 
turbed.  He  had  to  think — would  any  other  child  (old- 
fashioned,  like  himself)  stray  there  at  any  time,  to  whom 
the  same  grotesque  distortions  of  pattern  and  furniture 
would  manifest  themselves  ; and  would  anybody  tell  that 
boy  of  little  Dombey,  who  had  been  there  once. 

He  had  to  think  of  a portrait  on  the  stairs,  which  al- 
ways looked  earnestly  after  him  as  he  went  away,  eyeing 
it  over  his  shoulder;  and  which,  when  lie  passed  it  in  the 
company  of  any  one,  still  seemed  to  gaze  at  him,  and 
not  at  his  companion.  He  had  much  to  think  of,  in  as- 
sociation with  a print  that  hung  up  in  another  place, 
where,  in  the  centre  of  a wondering  group,  one  figure 
that  he  knew,  a figure  with  a light  about  its  head — be- 
nignant, mild,  and  merciful— stood  pointing  upward. 

At  his  own  bedroom  window,  there  were  crowds  of 
thoughts  that  mixed  with  these,  and  came  on,  one  upon 
another,  one  upon  another,  like  the  rolling  weaves. 
Where  those  wild  birds  lived,  that  were  always  hovering 
out  at  sea  in  troubled  weather  ; where  the  clouds  rose, 
and  first  began  ; whence  the  wind  issued  on  its  rushing 
flight,  and  where  it  stopped  ; whether  the  spot  where 
he  and  Florence  had  so  often  sat,  and  watched,  and 
talked  about  these  things,  could  ever  be  exactly  as  it 
used  to  be  without  them  ; whether  it  could  ever  be  the 
same  to  Florence,  if  he  were  in  some  distant  place,  and 
she  were  sitting  there  alone. 

He  had  to  think,  too,  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  Mr.  Feeder, 
HA. ; of  all  the  boys;  and  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs. 
Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber;  of  home,  and  of  his  aunt  and 
Miss  Tox  ; of  his  father,  Dombey  and  Son,  Walter  with 
the  poor  old  uncle  who  had  got  the  money  he  wanted. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


521 


and  bhat  gruff- voiced  captain  with  the  iron  hand.  Ee 
sides  all  this,  he  had  a number  of  little  visits  to  pa}^  in 
the  course  of  the  day  ; to  the  school-room,  to  Doctor 
Blimber' s study,  to  Mrs.  Blimber's  private  apartment,  to 
Miss  Blimber's,  and  to  the  dog.  For  he  was  free  of  the 
whole  house  now,  to  range  it  as  he  chose  ; and  in  his 
desire  to  part  with  everybody  on  affectionate  terms,  he 
attended,  in  his  way,  to  them  all.  Sometimes  he  found 
places  in  books  for  Briggs,  who  was  always  losing  them 
sometimes  he  looked  up  words  in  dictionaries  for  other 
young  gentlemen  who  were  in  extremity  ; sometimes  he 
held  skeins  of  silk  for  Mrs.  Blimber  to  wind  : sometimes 
he  put  Cornelia's  desk  to  rights  ; sometimes  he  would 
even  creep  into  the  doctor's  study,  and  sitting  on  the 
carpet  near  his  learned  feet,  turn  the  globes  softly,  and 
go  round  the  world,  or  take  a flight  among  the  far-off 
stars. 

In  those  days  immediately  before  the  holidays,  in  short, 
when  the  other  young  gentlemen  were  labouring  for 
dear  life  through  a general  resumption  of  the  studies  of 
the  whole  half-year,  Paul  was  such  a privileged  pupil 
as  had  never  been  seen  in  that  house  before.  He  could 
hardly  believe  it  himself  ; but  bis  liberty  lasted  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  from  day  to  day  ; and  little  Dombey 
was  caressed  by  every  one.  Doctor  Blimber  was  so  par 
ticular  about  him,  that  he  requested  Johnson  to  retire 
from  the  dinner-table  one  day,  for  having  thoughtlessly 
spoken  to  him  as  “ poor  little  Dombey  which  Paul 
thought  rather  hard  and  severe,  though  he  had  flushed 
at  the  moment,  and  wondered  why  Johnson  should  pity 
him.  It  was  the  more  questionable  justice,  Paul 
thought,  in  the  doctor,  from  his  having  certainly  over 
heard  that  great  authority  give  his  assent  on  the  previ 
ous  evening,  to  the  proposition  (stated  by  Mrs.  Blimber) 
that  poor  dear  little  Dombey  was  more  old-fashioned, 
than  ever.  And  now  it  was  that  Paul  began  to  think 
it  must  surely  be  old-fashioned  to  be  very  thin,  and 
light,  and  easily  tired,  and  soon  disposed  to.  lie  down 
anywhere  and  rest  ; for  he  couldn't  help  feeling  that 
these  were  more  and  more  his  habits  every  day. 

At  last  the  party-day  arrived  ; and  Doctor  Blimber 
said  at  breakfast,  “ Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  stud- 
ies on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month."  Mr.  Toots  im- 
mediately threw  off  his  allegiance,  and  put  on  his  ring 
and  mentioning  the  doctor  in  casual  conversation  shortly 
afterwards, spoke  of  him  as  “ Blimber  ! " This  act  of  free- 
dom inspired  the  older  pupils  with  admiration  and  envy; 
but  the  younger  spirits  were  appalled,  and  seemed 
marvel  that  no  beam  fell  down  and  crushed  him. 

Not  the  least  allusion  was  made  to  the  ceremonies  of 
the  evening,  either  at  breakfast  or  at  dinner  ; but  there 


522 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


was.  a bustle  in  tbe  house  all  day,  and  in  the  course  of 
his  perambulations,  Paul  made  acquaintance  with  various 
strange  benches  and  candlesticks,  and  met  a harp  in  a 
green  great-coat  standing  on  the  landing  outside  the 
drawing-room  door.  There  was  something  queer,  too, 
about  Mrs.  Blimber’s  head  at  dinner-time,  as  if  she  had 
screwed  her  hair  up  too  tight  ; and  though  Miss  Blimber 
showed  a graceful  bunch  of  plaited  hair  on  each  temple, 
she  seemed  to  have  her  own  little  curls  in  paper  under- 
neath, and  in  a play -bill  too  ; for  Paul  read  “ Theatre 
Royal 99  over  one  of  her  sparkling  spectacles,  and  “ Brigh- 
ton ” over  the  other. 

There  was  a grand  array  of  white  waistcoats  and  cra- 
vats in  the  young  gentlemen's  bedrooms  as  evening  ap- 
proached ; and  such  a smell  of  singed  hair,  that  Doctor 
Blimber  sent  up  the  footman  with  his  compliments,  and 
wished  to  know  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  But  it  was 
only  the  hair-dresser  curling  the  young  gentlemen,  and 
overheating  his  tongs  in  the  ardour  of  business. 

When  Paul  was  dressed — which  was  very  soon  done, 
for  he  felt  unwell  and  drowsy,  and  was  not  able  to  stand 
about  it  very  long — he  went  down  into  the  drawing-room  ; 
where  he  found  Doctor  Blimber  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room  full  dressed,  but  with  a dignified  and  unconcerned 
demeanour,  as  if  he  thought  it  barely  possible  that  one 
or  two  people  might  drop  in  by  and  bye.  Shortly  after- 
wards, Mrs.  Blimber  appeared,  looking  lovely,  Paul 
thought ; and  attired  in  such  a number  of  skirts  that  it 
was  quite  an  excursion  to  walk  round  her.  Miss  Blim- 
ber came  down  soon  after  her  mama  ; a little  squeezed  in 
appearance,  but  very  charming. 

Mr.  Toots  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  the  next  arrivals. 
Each  of  these  gentlemen  brought  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as 
if  he  lived  somewhere  else  ; and  when  they  were  an- 
nounced by  the  butler,  Doctor  Blimber  said,  “ Aye,  aye, 
aye  ! God  bless  my  soul  ! ” and  seemed  extremely  giad 
to  see  them.  Mr.  Toots  was  one  blaze  of  jewellery  and 
buttons  ; and  he  felt  the  circumstance  so  strongly,  that 
when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the  doctor,  and  had 
bowed  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber,  he  took  Paul 
aside,  and  said,  “ What  do  you  think  of  this,  Dombey  !” 

But  notwithstanding  this  modest  confidence  in  him- 
self, Mr.  Toots  appeared  to  be  involved  in  a good  deal  of 
uncertainty  whether,  on  the  whole,  it  was  judicious  to 
button  the  bottom  button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  whether, 
on  a calm  revision  of  all  the  circumstances,  it  was  best  to 
wear  his  wristbands  turned  up  or  turned  down.  Observ- 
ing that  Mr.  Feeder's  were  turned  up,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his 
up  ; but  the  wristbands  of  the  next  arrival  being  turned 
down,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his  down.  The  differences  in 
point  of  waistcoat -buttoning,  not  only  at  the  bottom,  but 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


523 


at  the  top  too,  became  so  numerous  and  complicated  as 
the  arrivals  thickened,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  continually 
fingering*  that  article  of  dress,  as  if  he  were  performing 
on  some  instrument ; and  appeared  to  find  the  incessant 
execution  it  demanded,  quite  bewildering. 

All  the  young  gentlemen  tightly  cravatted,  curled,  and 
pumped,  and  with  their  best  hats  in  their  hands,  having 
been  at  different  times  announced  and  introduced,  Mr. 
Baps,  the  dancing-master,  came,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Baps,  to  whom  Mrs.  Blimber  was  extremely  kind  and  con- 
descending. Mr.  Baps  was  a very  grave  gentleman,  with 
a slow  and  measured  manner  of  speaking  ; and  before  he 
had  stood  under  the  lamp  five  minutes,  he  began  to  talk 
to  Toots  (who  had  been  silently  comparing  pumps  with 
him)  about  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw  ma- 
terials when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return  for  your 
drain  of  gold.  Mr.  Toots,  to  whom  the  question  seemed 
perplexing/  suggested  “ Cook  ’em.”  But  Mr.  Baps  did 
not  appear  to  think  that  would  do. 

Paul  now  slipped  away  from  the  cushioned  corner  of 
a sofa,  which  had  been  his  post  of  observation,  and  went 
down- stairs  into  the  tea-room  to  be  ready  for  Florence, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  nearly  a fortnight,  as  he  had 
remained  at  Doctor  Blimber’s  on  the  previous  Saturday 
and  Sunday,  lest  he  should  take  cold.  Presently  she 
came  : looking  so  beautiful  in  her  simple  ball  dress,  with 
her  fresh  flowers  in  her  hand,  that  when  she  knelt  down 
on  the  ground  to  take  Paul  round  the  neck  and  kiss  him 
(for  there  was  no  one  there  but  his  friend  and  another 
voung  woman  waiting  to  serve  out  the  tea),  lie  could 
hardly  make  up  his  mind  to  let  her  go  again  or  take 
away  her  bright  and  loving  eyes  from  his  face. 

“But  what  is  the  matter,  Floy?”  asked  Paul,  almost 
sure  that  he  saw  a tear  there. 

“ Nothing,  darling,  nothing,”  returned  Florence. 

Paul  touched  her  cheek  gently  with  his  finger— and  it 
was  a tear  ! “ Why,  Floy  !”  said  he. 

“We’ll  go  home  together,  and  I’ll  nurse  you,  love,” 
said  Florence. 

“ Nurse  me  ! ” bchoed  Paui. 

Paul  couldn’t  understand  what  that  had  to  do  with  it, 
nor  why  the  two  young  women  looked  on  so  seriously, 
nor  wh y Florence  turned  away  her  face  for  a moment, 
and  then  turned  it  back,  lighted  up  again  with  smiles. 

“Floy,”  said  Paul,  holding  a ringlet  of  her  dark  hair 
in  his  hand.  “Tell  me,  dear.  Do  you  think  I have 
grown  old-fashioned  ? ” _ 

His  sister  laughed,  and  fondled  him,  and  told  him 
“No.” 

“ Because  I know  they  say  so,”  returned  Paul,  “ and 
I want  to  know  what  they  mean,  Floy.” 


524 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


But  a loud  double  knock  coming  at  the  door,  and 
Florence  hurrying  to  the  table,  there  was  no  more  said 
between  them.  Paul  wondered  again  wrhen  he  saw  his 
friend  whisper  to  Florence,  as  if  she  were  comforting 
her  ; but  a iTew  arrival  put  that  out  of  his  head  speedily . 

It  was  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  Lady  Skettles,  and  Master 
Skettles.  Master  Skettles  was  to  be  a new  boy  after 
the  vacation,  and  Fame  had  been  busy,  in  Mr.  Feeder’s 
room,  with  his  father,  who  was  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  of  whom  Mr.  Feeder  had  said  that  when  he 
did  catch  the  Speaker’s  eye  (which  he  had  been  expected 
to  do  for  three  or  four  years),  it  was  anticipated  that  h© 
would  rather  touch  up  the  Radicals. 

“ And  what  room  is  this  now,  for  instance?”  said 
Lady  Skettles  to  Paul’s  friend,  ’Melia. 

“ Doctor  Blimber’s  study,  ma’am,”  was  the  reply. 

Lady  Skettles  took  a panoramic  survey  of  it  through 
her  glass,  and  said  to  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  a nod 
of  approval,  “Very  good.”  Sir  Barnet  assented,  but 
Master  Skettles  looked  suspicious  and  doubtful. 

“ And  this  little  creature,  now,”  said  Lady  Skettles, 
turning  to  Paul.  “ Is  he  one  of  the — ” 

“Young  gentlemen,  ma’am  ; yes,  ma’am,”  said  Paul’s 
friend. 

“ And  what  is  your  name,  my  pale  child  ? ” said  Lady 
Skettles. 

“ Dombey,”  answered  Paul. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  immediately  interposed,  and  said 
that  he  had  had  the  honour  of  meeting  Paul’s  father  at 
a public  dinner,  and  that  he  hoped  he  was  very  well. 
Then  Paul  heard  him  say  to  Lady  Skettles,  ‘ City — very 
rich — most  respectable — doctor  mentioned  it.”  And  then 
he  said  to  Paul,  “ Will  you  tell  your  good  papa  that  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  rejoiced  to  hear  that  he  was  very  well, 
and  sent  him  his  best  compliments?” 

“ Yes,  sir,”  answered  Paul. 

“That  is  my  brave  boy,”  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 
“ Barnet,”  to  Master  Skettles,  who  was  revenging  him- 
self for  the  studies  to  come,  on  the  plum -cake,  “ this  is 
a young  gentleman  you  ought  to  know.  This  is  a young 
gentleman  you  may  know,  Barnet,”  said  Sir  Barnet  Sket- 
tles, with  an  emphasis  on  the  permission. 

“What  eyes!  What  hair!  What  a lovely  face!” 
exclaimed  Lady  Skettles  softly,*  as  she  looked  at  Florence 
through  her  glass. 

“My  sister,”  said  Paul,  presenting  her. 

The  satisfaction  of  the  Skettleses  was  now  complete. 
And  as  Lady  Skettles  had  conceived,  at  first  sight,  a 
liking  for  Paul,  they  all  went  up-stairs  together  : Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  taking  care  of  Florence,  and  young 
Barnet  following. 


* DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


525 


Young  Barnet  did  not  remain  long  in  the  back -ground 
after  they  had  reached  the  drawing-room,  for  Doctor 
Blimber  had  him  out  in  no  time  dancing  with  Florence. 
He  did  not  appear  to  Paul  to  be  particularly  happy,  or 
particularly  anything  but  sulky,  or  to  care  much  what 
he  was  about ; but  as  Paul  heard  Lady  Skettles  say  to 
Mrs.  Blimber,  while  she  beat  time  with  her  fan,  that 
her  dear  boy  was  evidently  smitten  to  death  by  that 
angel  of  a child,  Miss  Dombey,  it  would  seem  that 
Skettles  junior  was  in  a state  of  bliss  without  showing 
it. 

Little  Paul  thought  it  a singular  coincidence  that  no- 
body had  occupied  his  place  among  the  pillows  ; and 
that  when  he  came  into  the  room  again,  they  should  all 
make  way  for  him  to  go  back  to  it,  remembering  it  was 
his.  Nobody  stood  before  him  either,  when  they  ob- 
served that  he  liked  to  see  Florence  dancing,  but  they 
left  the  space  in  front  quite  clear,  so  that  he  might  fol- 
low her  with  his  eyes.  They  were  so  kind,  too,  even 
the  strangers,  of  whom  there  were  soon  a great  many, 
that  they  came  and  spoke  to  him  every  now  and  then, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was,  and  if  his  head  ached,  and 
whether*  he  was  tired.  He  was  very  much  obliged  to 
them  for  all  their  kindness  and  attention,  and  reclining 
propped  up  in  his  corner,  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Lady 
Skettles  on  the  same  sofa,  and  Florence  coming  and  sit- 
ting by  his  side  as  soon  as  every  dance  was  ended,  he 
looked  on  very  happily  indeed. 

Florence  would  have  sat  by  him  all  night,  and  would 
not  have  danced  at  all  of  her  own  accord,  but  Paul  made 
her,  by  telling  her  how  much  it  pleased  him.  And  he 
told  her  the  truth,  too  ; for  his  small  heart  swelled,  and 
his  face  glowed,  when  he  saw  how  much  they  all  ad- 
mired her,  and  how  she  was  the  beautiful  little  rosebud 
of  the  room. 

From  his  nest  among  the  pillows,  Paul  could  see  and 
hear  almost  everything  that  passed,  as  if  the  whole 
were  being  done  for  his  amusement.  Among  other  little 
incidents  that  he  observed,  he  observed  Mr.  Baps  the 
dancing-master  get  into  conversation  with  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles,  and  very  soon  ask  him,  as  he  had  asked  Mr. 
Toots,  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw  materials, 
when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return  for  your  drain 
of  gold — which  was  such  a mystery  to  Paul  that  he  was 
quite  desirous  to  know  what  ought  to  be  done  with 
them.  Sir  Barnet  Skettles  had  much  to  say  upon  the 
question,  and  said  it ; but  it  did  not  appear  to  solve 
the  question,  for  Mr.  Baps  retorted,  Yes,  but  supposing 
Russia  stepped  in  with  her  tallows  ; which  struck  Sir 
Barnet  almost  dumb,  for  he  could  only  shake  his  head 
after  that,  and  say,  why  then  you  must  fall  hack  upon 
your  cottons,  he  supposed. 


526 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Sir  Barnet  Sketties  looked  after  Mr.  Baps  when  he 
went  to  cheer  up  Mrs.  Baps  (who,  being  quite  deserted, 
was  pretending  to  look  over  the  music  book  of  the  gen- 
tleman who  played  the  harp),  as  if  he  thought  him  a 
remarkable  kind  of  man  ; and  shortly  afterwards  he  said 
so  in  those  words  to  Doctor  Blimber,  and  inquired  if  he 
might  take  the  liberty  of  asking  who  he  was,  and  whether 
he  had  ever  been  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  Doctor  Blim- 
ber answered  no,  he  believed  not  ; and  that  in  fact  he 
was  a professor  of — 

“ Of  something  connected  with  statistics.  I’ll  swear?” 
observed  Sir  Barnet  Sketties. 

“Why  no,  Sir  Barnet,”  replied  Doctor  Blimber,  rub- 
bing his  chin.  “ No,  not  exactly.” 

“ Figures  of  some  sort  I would  venture  a bet,”  said 
Sir  Barnet  Sketties. 

“Why  yes,”  said  Doctor  Blimber,  “yes,  but  not  of 
that  sort.  Mr.  Baps  is  a very  worthy  sort  of  man. 
Sir  Barnet,  and— in  fact  he’s  our  professor  of  danc- 
ing,” 

Paul  was  amazed  to  see  that  this  piece  of  information 
quite  altered  Sir  Barnet  Sketties’  opinion  of  Mr.  Baps, 
and  that  Sir  Barnet  flew  into  a perfect  rage,  and  glow- 
ered at  Mr.  Baps  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  D Mr.  Baps  to  Lady  Sketties, 
in  telling  her  what  had  happened,  and  to  say  that  it 
was  like  his  most  con-sum-mate  and  con-foun-ded  im- 
pudence. 

There  was  another  thing  that  Paul  observed.  Mr. 
Feeder,  after  imbibing  several  custard-cups  of  negus, 
(began  to  enjoy  himself.  The  dancing  in  general  was 
ceremonious,  and  the  music  rather  solemn — a little  like 
church  music  in  fact  : but  after  the  custard-cups,  Mr. 
Feeder  told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  going  to  throw  a lit- 
tle spirit  into  the  thing.  After  that,  Mr.  Feeder  not 
only  began  to  dance  as  if  he  meant  dancing  and  nothing 
else,  but  secretly  to  stimulate  the  music  to  perform  wild 
tunes.  Further,  he  became  particular  in  his  attentions 
to  the  ladies  ; and  dancing  with  Miss  Blimber,  whispered 
to  her— whispered  to  her  ! — though  not  so  softly  Out  tha$ 
Paul  heard  him  say  this  remarkable  poetry, 

“ Had  I a heart  for  falsehood  framed, 

I ne’er  could  injure  You  ! 11 

This,  Paul  heard  him  repeat  to  four  young  ladies  in  suc- 
cession. Well  might  Mr.  Feeder  say  to  Mr.  Toots, 
that  he  was  afraid  he  should  be  the  worse  for  it  to-mor- 
Tow  ! 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  a little  alarmed  by  this— compara- 
tively speaking — profligate  behaviour  ; and  especially 
by  the  alteration  in  the  character  of  the  music,  which. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


527 


beginning  to  comprehend  low  melodies  that  were  popu- 
lar La  the  streets,  might  not  unnaturally  be  supposed  to 
give  offence  to  Lady  Skettles.  But  Lady  Skettles  was 
so  very  kind  as  to  beg  Mrs.  Bfimber  not  to  mention  it  • 
and  to  receive  her  explanation  that  Mr.  Feeder’s  spirits 
sometimes  betrayed  him  into  excesses  on  these  occasions, 
with  the  greatest  courtesy  and  politeness  ; observing, 
that  he  seemed  a very  nice  sort  of  person  for  his  situa- 
tion, and  that  she  particularly  liked  the  unassuming 
style  of  his  hair — which  (as  already  hinted)  was  about  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  long. 

Once,  when  there  was  a pause  in  the  dancing,  Lady 
Skettles  told  Paul  that  lie  seemed  very  fond  of  music. 
Paul  replied,  that  he  was ; and  if  she  was,  too,  she 
ought  to  hear  his  sister  Florence  sing.  Lady  Skettles 
presently  discovered  that  she  was  dying  with  anxiety  to 
have  that  gratification  ; and  though  Florence  was  at 
first  very  much  frightened  at  being  asked  to  sing  before 
so  many  people,  and  begged  earnestly  to  be  excused, 
yet,  on  Paul  calling  her  to  him,  and  saying,  “ Do,  Floy  ! 
Please  ! For  me,  my  dear  ! ” she  went  straight  to  the 
piano,  and  began.  When  they  all  drew  a little  away, 
that  Paul  might  see  her  ; and  when  he  saw  her  sitting 
there  alone,  so  young,  and  good,  and  beautiful,  and  kind 
to  him  ; and  heard  her  thrilling  voice,  so  natural  and 
sweet,  and  such  a golden  link  between  him  and  all  his 
life’s  love  and  happiness,  rising  out  of  the  silence  ; h® 
turned  his  face  away,  and  hid  his  tears.  Not,  as  he  told 
them  when  they  spoke  to  him,  not  that  the  music  was 
too  plaintive  or  too  sorrowful,  but  it  was  so  dear  to  him. 

They  all  loved  Florence  ! How  could  they  help  it  l 
Paul  had  known  beforehand  that  they  must  and  wrould ; 
and  sitting  in  his  cushioned  corner,  with  calmly  folded 
hands,  and  one  leg  loosely  doubled  under  him,  few 
would  have  thought  what  triumph  and  delight  expanded 
his  childish  bosom  while  he  watched  her,  or  what  a 
sweet  tranquillity  he  felt.  Lavish  encomiums  on  “ Dorm 
bey’s  sister,”  reached  his  ears  from  all  the  boys  : ad* 
miration  of  the  self-possessed  and  modest  little  beauty, 
was  on  every  lip  : reports  of  her  intelligence  and  ac* 
complishments  floated  past  him,  constantly  ; and,  as  if 
borne  in  upon  the  air  of  the  summer  night,  there  was  a 
half  intelligible  sentiment  diffused  around,  referring  to 
Florence  and  himself,  and  breathing  sympathy  for  both, 
that  soothed  and  touched  him. 

He  did  not  know  why.  For  all  that  the  child  ob 
served,  and  felt,  and  thought,  that  night— the  present 
and  the  absent ; what  was  then  and  what  had  been— 
were  blended  like  the  colours  in  the  rainbow,  or  in  the 
plumage  of  rich  birds  when  the  sun  is  shining  on  them, 
or  in  the  softening  sky  when  the  same  sun  is  setting 


528 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DJCKENS. 


The  many  things  he  had  had  to  think  of  lately,  passed 
before  him  in  the  music  ; not  as  claiming  his  attention 
over  again,  or  as  likely  ever  more  to  occupy  it,  but  as 
peacefully  disposed  of  and  gone.  A solitary  window, 
gazed  through  years  ago,  looked  out  upon  an  ocean, 
miles  and  miles  away  ; upon  its  waters,  fancies,  busy 
with  him  only  yesterday,  were  hushed  and  lulled  to 
rest  like  broken  waves.  The  same  mysterious  murmur 
he  had  wondered  at,  when  lying  on  his  couch  upon  the 
beach,  he  thought  he  still  heard  sounding  through  his 
sister’s  song,  and  through  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the 
tread  of  feet,  and  having  some  part  in  the  faces  Hitting 
by,  and  even  in  the  heavy  gentleness  of  Mr.  Toots,  who 
frequently  came  up  to  shake  him  by  the  hand.  Through 
the  universal  kindness  he  still  thought  he  heard  it, 
speaking  to  him  ; and  even  his  old-fashioned  reputation 
seemed  to  be  allied  to  it,  he  knew  not  how.  Thus  little 
Paul  sat  musing,  listening,  looking  on,  and  dreaming* 
and  was  very  happy. 

Until  the  time  arrived  for  taking  leave  : and  then,  in- 
deed, there  was  a sensation  in  the  party.  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles  brought  up  Skettles  Junior  to  shake  hands  with 
him,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  remember  to  tell  his 
good  Papa,  with  his  best  compliments,  that  he,  Sir  Bar 
net  Skettles,  had  said  he  hoped  the  two  young  gentle- 
men would  become  intimately  acquainted.  Lady  Skettles 
kissed  him,  and  parted  his  hair  upon  his  brow,  and  held 
him  in  her  arms  ; and  even  Mrs.  Baps — poor  Mrs.  Baps  1 
Paul  was  glad  of  that— came  over  from  beside  the 
music-book  of  the  gentleman  who  played  the  harp,  and 
took  leave  of  him  quite  as  heartily  as  anybody  in  the 
room 

‘‘Good  bye,  Doctor  Blimber,”  said  Paul,  stretching 
out  his  hand. 

“ Good  bye,  my  little  friend,”  returned  the  doctor. 

I’m  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,”  said  Paul,  look- 
ing innocently  up  into  his  awful  face.  “ Ask  them  to 
take  care  of  Diogenes,  if  you  please.” 

Diogenes  was  the  dog  ; who  had  never  in  his  life  re 
ceived  a friend  into  his  confidence,  before  Paul.  The 
doctor  promised  that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to 
Diogenes  in  Paul’s  absence,  and  Paul  having  again 
thanked  him,  and  shaken  hands  with  him,  bade  adieu  to 
Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  with  such  heartfelt  earnest- 
ness that  Mrs.  Blimber  forgot  from  that  moment  to  men- 
tion Cicero  to  Lady  Skettles,  though  she  had  fully  in- 
tended it,  all  the  evening.  Cornelia  taking  both  Paul’s 
hands  in  hers,  said,  “ Dombey,  Dombey,  you  have  al- 
ways been  my  favourite  pupil.  God  bless  you  ! ” And 
it  showed,  Paul  thought,  how  easily  one  might  do  in- 
justice to  a person  ; for  Miss  Blimber  meant  it — though 
she  was  a Forcer — and  felt  it. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


529 


A buzz  then  went  round  among  the  young  gentlemen, 
of  6t  Dombey’s  going  ! ” “ Little  Dombey’s  going  ! ” and 
there  was  a general  move  after  Paul  and  Florence  down 
the  staircase  and  into  the  hall,  in  which  the  whole 
Blimber  family  were  included.  Such  a circumstance, 
Mr0  Feeder  said  aloud,  as  had  never  happened  in  the 
ease  of  any  former  young  gentleman  within  his  experi- 
ence ; but  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  if  this  were  sober 
fact  or  custard-cups.  The  servants  with  the  butler  at 
their  head,  had  all  an  interest  in  seeing  Little  Dombey 
go  ; and  even  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  taking  out  his 
books  and  trunks  to  the  coach  that  was  to  carry  him  and 
Florence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  for  the  night,  melted  visibly, 

Not  even  the  influence  of  the  softer  passion  on  the 
young  gentlemen-— and  they  all,  to  a boy,  doted  on  Flor- 
ence—could  restrain  them  from  taking  quite  a noisy 
leave  of  Paul ; waving  hats  after  him,  pressing  down- 
stairs to  shake  hands  with  him,  crying  individually 
" Dombey,  don’t  forget  me  I”  and  indulging  in  many 
<^uch  ebullitions  of  feeling,  uncommon  among  those 
young  Chesterfields.  Paul  whispered  Florence,  as  she 
wrapped  him  up  before  the  door  was  opened;  Did  she 
hear  them  ? Would  she  ever  forget  it  ? Was  she  glad 
to  know  it  ? And  a lively  delight  was  in  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke  to  her. 

Once,  for  a last  look,  he  turned  and  gazed  upon  the 
faces  thus  addressed  to  him,  surprised  to  see  how  shin- 
ing and  how  bright,  and  numerous  they  were,  and  how 
they  were  ail  piled  and  heaped  up,  as  faces  are  at 
crowded  theatres.  They  swam  before  him  as  he  looked, 
like  faces  in  an  agitated  glass  ; and  next  moment  lie 
was  in  the  dark  coach  outside,  holding  close  to  Florence. 
From  that  time,  whenever  he  thought  of  Doctor  Blim- 
ber’s,  it  came  back  as  he  had  seen  it  in  this  last  view  , 
and  it  never  seemed  to  be  a real  place  again,  but  always 
a dream,  full  of  eyes. 

This  was  not  quite  the  last  of  Doctor  Blimber’s,  how 
ever.  There  was  something  else.  There  was  Mr.  Toots. 
Who,  unexpectedly  letting  down  one  of  the  coach 
windows,  and  looking  in,  said,  with  a most  egregious 
chuckle,  “Is  Dombey  there?”  and  immediately  put  it 
up  again,  without  waiting  for  an  answer.  Nor  was  this 
quite  the  last  of  Mr.  Toots,  even  ; for  before  the  coach 
man  could  drive  off,  he  as  suddenly  let  down  the  other 
window,  and  looking  in  with  a precisely  similiar  chuckle, 
said  in  a precisely  similiar  tone  of  voice,  “ Is  Dombey 
there  ? ” and  disappeared  precisely  as  before. 

How  Florence  laughed  1 Paul  often  remembered  it, 
feLd  laughed  himself  whenever  he  did  so. 

But  there  was  much,  soon  afterwards— next  day,  anc 
after  that;— which  Paul  could  only  recollect  confusedly 
-W  " VOL.  IX 


580 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


As,  why  they  stayed  at  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  days  and  nights, 
instead  of  going  home  ; why  he  lay  in  bed,  with  Florence 
sitting  by  his  side  ; whether  that  had  been  his  father  in 
the  room,  or  only  a tall  shadow  on  the  wall ; whether 
he  had  heard  his  doctor  say,  of  some  one,  that  if  they 
had  removed  him  before  the  occasion  on  which  he  had 
built  up  fancies,  strong  in  proportion  to  his  own  weak 
ness,  it  was  very  possible  he  might  have  pined  away. 

He  could  not  even  remember  whether  he  had  often 
said  to  Florence,  “Oh  Floy,  take  me  home  and  never 
leave  me  ! ” but  he  thought  he  had.  He  fancied  some- 
times he  had  heard  himself  repeating,  “Take  me  home, 
Floy  ! take  rae  home  !” 

But  he  could  remember,  when  he  got  home,  and  was 
carried  up  the  well-remembered  stairs,  that  there  had 
been  a rumbling  of  a coach  for  many  hours  together, 
while  he  lay  upon  the  seat,  with  Florence  still  beside 
him,  and  old  Mrs.  Pipchin  sitting  opposite.  He  remem 
bered  his  old  bed  too,  when  they  laid  him  down  in  it  . 
his  aunt.  Miss  Tox,  and  Susan  : but  there  was  some- 
thing else,  and  recent  too,  that  still  perplexed  him. 

“ I want  to  speak  to  Florence,  if  you  please,”  he  said. 
nt  To  Florence  by  herself  for  a moment ! ” 

She  bent  down  over  him,  and  the  others  stood  away. 

“ Floy,  my  pet,  wasn’t  that  papa  in  the  hall  when 
they  brought  me  from  the  coach  ? ” 

“Yes,  dear.” 

“ He  didn’t  cry,  and  go  into  his  room,  Floy,  did  he, 
when  he  saw  me  coming  in  ?” 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  pressed  her  lip  s against 
his  cheek. 

“ I’m  very  glad  he  didn’t  cry,”  said  little  Paul.  I 
thought  he  "did.  Don’t  tell  them  that  I asked.” 


CHAPTER  XY. 

Amazing  Artfulness  of  Captain  Cuttle , and  a new  Pursuit  forWat&P 
Gay . 

Walter  could  not,  for  several  days,  decide  what  to 
do  in  the  Barbados  business  ; and  even  cherished  some 
faint  hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  might  not  have  not  meant 
what  he  had  said,  or  that  he  might  change  his  mind,  and 
tell  him  he  was  not  to  go.  But  as  nothing  occurred  to 
give  this  idea  (which  was  sufficiently  improbable  in 
Uself^  any  touch  of  confirmation,  and  as  time  was  slip> 
ping  by,  and  he  had  none  to  lose,  he  felt  that  he  must 
act,  without  hesitating  any  longer. 

Walter’s  chief  difficulty  was,  how  to  break  the  change 
in  his  affairs  to  Uncle  Sol,  to  whom  he  was  sensible  it 


BOMBEY  and  son. 


531 


would  be  a terrible  blow.  He  had  the  greater  difficulty 
in  dashing  Uncle  Sol’s  spirits  with  such  an  astounding 
piece  of  intelligence,  because  they  had  lately  recovered 
very  much,  and  the  old  man  had  become  so  cheerful, 
that  the  little  back  parlour  was  itself  again.  Uncle 
Sol  had  paid  the  first  appointed  portion  of  the  debt  to 
Mr.  Dombey,  and  was  hopeful  of  working  his  way 
through  the  rest  ; and  to  cast  him  down  afresh,  when 
he  had  sprung  up  so  manfully  from  his  troubles,  was  a 
very  distressing  necessity. 

Yet  it  w’ould  never  do  to  run  away  from  him.  He 
must  know  of  it  beforehand  ; and  how  to  tell  him  was 
the  point.  As  to  the  question  of  going  or  not  going, 
Walter  did  not  consider  that  he  had  any  power  of  choice 
in  the  matter.  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  told  him  that  he 
was  young,  and  that  his  uncle’s  circumstances  were  not 
good  ; and  Mr.  Dombey  had  plainly  expressed,  in  the 
glance  with  which  he  had  accompanied  that  reminder, 
that  if  he  declined  to  go  he  might  stay  at  home  if  he 
chose,  but  not  in  his  counting-house.  His  uncle  and  he 
lay  under  a great  obligation  to  Mr.  Dombey,  which  was 
of  Walter’s  own  soliciting.  He  might  have  begun  in 
secret  to  despair  of  eve  winning  that  gentleman’s  favour, 
and  might  have  thought  that  he  was  now  and  then  dis- 
posed to  put  a slight  upon  him,  which  was  liardiy  just 
But  what  would  have  been  duty  without  that,  was  still 
duty  with  it— or  Walter  thought  so — and  duty  must  be 
done. 

When  Mr.  Dombey  had  looked  at  him,  and  told  him 
he  was  young,  and  that  his  uncle’s  circumstances  were 
not  good,  there  haa  been  an  expression  of  disdain  in  his 
face  ; a contemptuous  and  disparaging  assumption  that 
he  would  be  quite  content  to  live  idly  on  a reduced  old 
man,  which  stung  the  boy’s  generous  soul.  Determined 
to  assure  Mr.  Dombey,  in  so  far  as  it  was  possible  to  give 
him  the  assurance  without  expressing  it  in  words  that 
indeed  he  mistook  his  nature,  W alter  had  been  anxious 
to  show  even  more  cheerfulness  and  activity  after  the 
West-Indian  interview  than  he  had  shown  before  : if 
that  were  possible,  in  one  of  his  quick  and  zealous  dis- 
position. He  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  think, 
that  possibly  this  very  quality  in  him  was  not  agreeable 
to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that  it  was  no  stepping-stone  to  his 
good  opinion  to  be  elastic  and  hopeful  of  pleasing  under 
the  shadow  of  his  powerful  displeasure,  whether  it  were 
right  or  wrong.  But  it  may  have  been — it  may  have 
been — that  the  great  man  thought  himself  defied  in  this 
new  exposition  of  an  honest  spirit,  and  purposed  to  bring 
it. down. 

“ Well  ! at  last  and  at  least.  Uncle  Sol  must  be  told/* 
thought  Walter  with  a sigh.  And  as  Walter  was  appre* 


532 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


hensive  that  his  voice  might  perhaps  quaver  a little,  and 
that  his  countenance  might  not  be  quite  as  hopeful  as  he 
could  wish  it  to  be,  if  he  told  the  old  man  himself,  and 
saw  the  first  effects  of  his  communication  on  his  wrin- 
kled face,  he  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  the  services  of 
that  powerful  mediator.  Captain  Cuttle.  Sunday  coming 
round,  he  set  off,  therefore,  after  breakfast,  once  more 
to  beat  up  Captain  Cuttle’s  quarters. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  to  remember,  on  the  way  thither, 
that  Mrs.  MacStinger  resorted  to  a great  distance  every 
Sunday  morning,  to  attend  the  ministry  of  the  Reverend 
Melchisedech  Howler,  who,  having  been  one  day  dis- 
charged from  the  West  India  Docks  on  a false  suspicion 
(got  up  expressly  against  him  by  the  general  enemy)  of 
screwing  gimlets  into  puncheons,  and  applying  his  lips 
to  the  orifice,  had  announced  the  destruction  of  the  world 
for  that  day  two  years,  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  opened 
a front  parlour  for  the  reception  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  the  Ranting  persuasion,  upon  whom,  on  the  first  oc- 
casion of  their  assemblage,  the  admonitions  of  the  Rev- 
erend Melchisedech  had  produced  so  powerful  an  effect, 
that,  in  their  rapturous  performance  of  a sacred  jig, 
which  closed  the  service,  the  whole  flock  broke  through 
into  a kitchen  below,  and  disabled  a mangle  belonging 
to  one  of  the  fold. 

This  the  captain,  in  a moment  of  uncommon  convivial- 
ity, had  confided  to  Walter  and  his  uncle,  between  the 
repetitions  of  lovely  Peg,  on  the  night  when  Brogley  the 
broker  was  paid  out.  The  captain  himself  was  punctual 
in  his  attendance  at  a church  in  his  own  neighbourhood, 
which  hoisted  the  union  jack  every  Sunday  morning ; 
and  where  he  was  good  enough— the  lawful  beadle  being 
infirm — to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  boys,  over  whom  he 
exercised  great  power,  in  virtue  of  his  mysterious  hook. 
Knowing  the  regularity  of  the  captain’s  habits,  Walter 
made  all  the  haste  he  could,  that  he  might  anticipate  his 
going  out  ; and  he  made  such  good  speed,  that  he  had 
the  pleasure,  on  turning  into  Brig  Place,  to  behold  the 
broad  blue  coat  and  waistcoat  hanging  out  of  the  cap- 
tain’s open  window,  to  air  in  the  sun. 

It  appeared  incredible  that  the  coat  and  waistcoat  could 
be  seen  by  mortal  eyes  without  the  captain  ; but  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  in  them,  otherwise  his  legs — the  houses  in 
Brig  Place  not  being  lofty— would  have  obstructed  the 
street  door,  which  was  perfectly  clear.  Quite  wondering 
at  this  discovery,  Walter  gave  a single  knock. 

“ Stinger,”  he  distinctly  heard  the  captain  say,  up  in 
his  room,  as  if  that  were  no  business  of  his.  Therefore 
Walter  gave  two  knocks. 

“ Cuttle,”  he  heard  the  captain  say  upon  that  ; and 
immediately  afterwards  the  captain,  in  his  clean  shirfi 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


533 


and  braces,  witb  bis  neckerchief  hanging  loosely  round 
his  throat  like  a coil  of  rope,  and  his  glazed  hat  on,  ap- 
peared at  the  window,  leaning  out  over  the  broad  blue 
coat  and  waistcoat. 

“ Wal’r  ! ” cried  the  captain,  looking  down  upon  him 
in  amazement. 

“ Ay,  ay.  Captain  Cuttle/’  returned  Walter,  “ only 

me.” 

“What's  the  matter,  my  lad?”  inquired  the  captain, 
with  great  concern,  “ Gills  an’t  been  and  sprung  nothing 
again  ? ” 

“No,  no,”  said  Walter.  “My  uncle’s  all  right.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle.  ” 

The  captain  expressed  his  gratification,  and  said  he 
would  come  down  below  and  open  the  door,  which  he 
did. 

“ Though  you’re  early,  Wal’r,”  said  the  captain,  eyeing 
him  still  doubtfully,  when  they  got  up-tairs. 

“ Why,  the  fact  is,  Captain  Cuttle,”  said  Walter,4 
sitting  down,  “ I was  afraid  you  would  have  gone  ou&/ 
and  I want  to  benefit  by  your  friendly  counsel.” 

“So  you  shall,”  said  the  captain;  “What’ll  you 
take  ? ” 

“ I want  to  take  your  opinion.  Captain  Cuttle,” 
returned  Walter,  smiling.  “ That’s  the  only  thing  for 
me.” 

“ Come  on  then,”  said  the  captain.  “ With  a will, 
my  lad  ! ” 

Waiter  related  to  him  wThat  had  happened  ; and  the 
difficulty  in  which  he  felt  respecting  bis  uncle,  and  the 
relief  it  would  be  to  him  if  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  kind- 
ness, would  help  him  to  smooth  it  away  ; Captain  Cut- 
tle’s infinite  consternation  and  astonishment  at  he  pros- 
pect unfolded  to  him,  gradually  swallowing  that  gentle- 
man up,  until  it  left  his  face  quite  vacant,  and  the  suit 
of  blue,  the  glazed  hat,  and  the  hook,  apparently  with- 
out an  owner. 

“You  see,  Captain  Cuttle,”  pursued  Walter,  “for 
myself,  I am  young,  as  Mr.  Dombey  said,  and  not  to  be 
considered.  I am  to  fight  my  way  through  the  world,  1 
know  ; but  there  are  two  points  I was  thinking,  as  I 
came  along,  that  I should  be  very  partic  r about,  in 
respect  to  my  uncle.  I don’t  mean  to  say  that  I deserve 
to  be  the  pride  and  delight  of  his  life — you  believe  me,  I 
know — but  I am.  Now,  don’t  you  think  I am  ? ” 

The  captain  seemed  to  make  an  endeavour  to  rise 
from  the  depths  of  his  astonishment,  and  get  ha  to  his 
face  ; hut  the  effort  being  ineffectual,  the  glazed  hat 
merely  nodded  with  a mute  unutterable  meaning. 

“ If  I live  and  have  my  health,”  said  Walter,  “ and  I 
am  not  afraid  of  that,  still,  when  I leave  England  I ca$ 


584 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


hardly  hope  to  see  my  uncle  again.  He  is  old,  Captain 
Cuttle  ; and  besides,  his  life  is  a life  of  custom — ” 

‘ iStealy,  Wal’r  ! Of  a want  of  custom?”  said  the 
captain,  suddenly  reappearing. 

44  Too  true,”  returned  Walter,  shaking  his  head  ; “but 
I meant  a life  of  habit,  Captain  Cuttle — thal  sort  of  cus- 
tom. And  if  (as  you  very  truly  said,  I am  sure)  he 
would  have  died  the  sooner  for  the  loss  of  the  stock,  and 
all  those  objects  to  which  he  has  been  acceustomed  for  so 
many  years,  don’t  you  think  he  might  die  a little  sooner 
for  the  loss  of—” 

Of  his  nevy,”  interposed  the  captain.  “ Right ! ” 

“Well  then,”  said  Walter,  trying  to  speak  gaily,  “ we 
must  do  our  best  to  make  him  believe  that  the  separa- 
tion is  but  a temporary  one,  after  all ; but  as  I know 
better,  or  dread  that  I know  better,  Captain  Cuttle,  and  as 
I have  so  many  reasons  for  regarding  him  with  affection, 
and  duty,  and  honour,  I am  afraid  I should  make  but  a 
very  poor  hand  at  that,  if  I tried  to  persuade  him  of  it. 
That’s  my  great  reason  for  wishing  you  to  break  it  out 
to  him  ; and  that’s  the  first  point.” 

“ Keep  her  off  a point  or  so  I ” observed  the  captain, 
in  a contemplative  voice. 

“ What  did  you  say.  Captain  Cuttle?”  inquired  Wal- 
ter. 

44  Stand  by  ! ” returned  the  captain,  thoughtfully. 

Walter  paused  to  ascertain  if  the  captain  had  any  par- 
ticular information  to  add  to  this,  but  as  he  said  no  more, 
went  on. 

“ Now,  the  second  point.  Captain  Cuttle.  I am  sorry 
to  say,  I am  not  a favourite  with  Mr.  Dombey.  I have 
always  tried  to  do  my  best,  and  J have  always  done  it ; 
but  he  does  not  like  me.  He  can’t  help  his  likings  and 
dislikings,  perhaps.  I say  nothing  of  that.  I only  say 
that  I am  certain  he  does  not  like  me.  He  does  not  send 
me  to  this  post  as  a good  one  ; he  disdains  to  represent 
it  as  being  better  than  it  is*;  and  I doubt  very  much  if  it 
will  ever  lead  me  to  advancement  in  the  House— whether 
it  does  not,  on  the  contrary,  dispose  of  me  for  ever,  and 
put  me  out  of  the  way.  Now,  we  must  say  nothing  of 
tfhis  to  my  uncle.  Captain  Cuttle,  but  must  make  it  out 
to  be  as  favourable  and  promising  as  we  can  ; and  when 
I tell  you  what  it  really  is,  I only  do  so,  that  in  case  any 
means  should  ever  arise  of  lending  me  a hand,  so  far  off, 
I.  may  have  one  friend  at  home  who  knows  my  real  situa- 
tion.” 

“ Wal’r,  my  boy,”  replied  the  captain/4  in  the  Proverbs 
of  Solomon  you  will  find  the  following  words,  4 May  we 
never  want  a friend  in  need,  nor  a bottle  to  give  him  \ 9 
When  found,  make  a note  of.” 

Here  the  captain  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Walter,  with 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


535 


&n  air  of  downright  good  faith  that  spoke  volumes  ; at 
the  same  time  repeating  (for  he  felt  proud  of  the  accur- 
acy and  pointed  application  of  his  quotation),  “ When 
found,  make  a note  of.” 

“ Captain  Cuttle,”  said  Walter,  taking  the  immense 
list  extended  to  him  by  the  captain  in  both  his  hands, 
which  it  completely  filled,  “ next  to  my  Uncle  Sol,  I love 
you.  There  is  no  one  on  earth  in  whom  I can  more 
safely  trust,  I am  sure.  As  to  the  mere  going  away. 
Captain  Cuttle,  I don’t  care  for  that ; why  should  I care 
for  that ! If  I were  free  to  seek  my  own  fortune — if  I 
were  free  to  go  as  a common  sailor— if  I were  free  to 
venture  on  my  own  account  to  the  farthest  end  of  the 
world— I would  gladly  go  ! I would  have  gladly  gone, 
years  ago,  and  taken  my  chance  of  what  might  come  of 
it.  But  it  was  against  my  uncle’s  wishes,  and  against 
the  plans  he  had  formed  for  me,  and  there  was  an  end  of 
that.  But  what  I feel.  Captain  ( ttle,  is  that  we  have 
been  a little  mistaken  all  along,  and  that,  so  far  as  any 
Improvement  in  my  prospects  is  concerned,  I am  no  bet- 
ter off  now  than  I was  when  I first  entered  Dombey’s  House 
— perhaps  a little  worse,  for  the  House  may  have  been 
kindly  inclined  towards  me  then,  and  it  certainly  is  not 
now.” 

“ Turn  again,  Whittington,”  muttered  the  disconsolate 
captain,  after  looking  at  Walter  for  some  time. 

“ Ay  !”  replied  Walter,  laughing,  “and  turn  a great 
many  times,  too,  Captain  Cuttle,  I’m  afraid,  before  such 
fortune  as  his  ever  turns  up  again.  Not  that  I complain,” 
ke  £ dded,  in  his  lively,  animated,  energetic  way.  “ I 
have  nothing  to  complain  of.  I am  provided  for.  I can 
live.  When  I leave  my  uncle,  I leave  him  to  you  ; and 
I can  leave  him  to  no  one  better.  Captain  Cuttle.  I 
haven’t  told  you  all  this  because  I despair,  not  I ; it’s  to 
convince  you  that  I can’t  pick  and  choose  in  Dombey’s 
House,  and  that  where  I am  sent,  there  I must  go,  and 
what  I am  offered,  that  I must  take.  It’s  better  for  my 
uncle  that  I should  be  sent  away  ; for  Mr.  Dombey  is  a 
valuable  friend  to  him,  as  he  proved  himself,  you  know 
when.  Captain  Cuttle  ; and  I am  persuaded  he  won’t  be 
less  valuable  when  he  hasn’t  me  there,  every  day,  to 
awaken  his  dislike.  So  hurrah  for  the  West  Indies, 
Captain  Cuttle  ! How  does  that  tune  go  that  the  sailors 
sing  ? 

“ For  the  Port  of  Barbados,  boys  ! 

Cheerily 

Leaving  old  England  behind  us,  boys  1 
Cheerily  l 

Here  the  captain  roared  in  chorus 

“ Oh  cheerily,  cheerily  ! 

“ Oh  cheer— i— ly  l M 


536 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS-. 


The  last  line  reaching  the  quick  ears  of  an  ardent 
skipper  not  quite  sober,  who  lodged  opposite,  and  who 
instantly  sprung  out  of  bed,  threw  up  his  window,  and 
joined  in  across  the  street,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  pro- 
duced a fine  effect.  When  it  was  impossible  to  sustain 
the  concluding  note  any  longer,  the  skipper  bellowed 
forth  a terrific  “ ahoy  ! ” intended  in  part  as  a friendly 
greeting,  and  in  part  to  show  that  he  was  not  at  all 
breathed.  That  done,  he  shut  down  his  window,  and 
went  to  bed  again. 

“ And  now.  Captain  Cuttle,”  said  Walter,  handing 
him  the  blue  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  bustling  very  much, 
“ if  you'll  come  and  break  the  news  to  Uncle  Sol  (which 
he  ought  to  have  known,  days  upon  days  ago,  by  rights) 
1T1  leave  you  at  the  door,  you  know,  and  walk  about 
until  the  afternoon.” 

The  captain,  however,  scarcely  appeared  to  relish  the 
commission,  or  to  be  by  any  means  confident  of  his  power 
of  executing  it.  He  had  arranged  the  future  life  and 
adventures  of  Walter  so  very  differently,  and  so  entirely 
to  his  own  satisfaction  ; he  had  felicitated  himself  so 
often  on  the  sagacity  and  foresight  displayed  in  that  ar- 
rangement, and  had  found  it  so  complete  and  perfect  in 
all  its  parts  ; that  to  suffer  it  to  go  to  pieces  all  at  once, 
and  even  to  assist  in  breaking  it  up,  required  a great 
effort  of  his  resolution.  The  captain,  too,  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  unload  his  old  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and  to 
take  a perfectly  new  cargo  on  board,  with  that  rapidity 
which  the  circumstances  required,  or  without  jumbling 
and  confounding  the  two.  Consequently,  instead  of 
putting  on  his  coat  and  waistcoat  with  anything  like  the 
impetuosity  that  could  alone  have  kept  pace  with  Waiter's 
mood,  he  declined  to  invest  himself  with  those  garments 
at  all  at  present  ; and  informed  Walter  that  on  such  a 
serious  matter,  he  must  be  allowed  to  “ bite  his  nails  a 
bit.” 

“ It’s  an  old  habit  of  mine,  Wal'r,”  said  the  captain, 
“ any  time  these  fifty  year.  WTken  you  see  Ned  Cuttle 
bite  his  nails,  WaTr,  then  you  may  know  that  Ned  Cut- 
tle's aground.” 

Thereupon  the  captain  put  his  iron  hook  betv/een  his 
teeth,  as  if  it  were  a hand. ; and  with  an  air  of  wisdom 
and  profundity  that  was  the  very  concentration  and  sub- 
limation of  all  philosophical  reflection  and  grave  inquiry, 
applied  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the  subject  in 
its  various  branches. 

“ There's  a friend  of  mine,”  murmured  the  captain,  in 
an  absent  manner,  “ but  he's  at  present  coasting  round 
to  Whitby,  that  would  deliver  such  an  opinion  on  this 
subject,  or  any  other  that  could  be  named,  as  would 
give  Parliament  six  and  beat  'em.  Been  knocked  over- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON 


537 


board  that  man,”  said  the  captain,  tf  twice,  and  none  the 
worse  for  it.  Was  beat  in  his  apprenticeship,  for  three 
weeks  (off  and  on),  about  the  head  with  a ring-bolt.  And 
yet  a clearer-minded  man  don’t  walk.” 

In  spite  of  his  respect  for  Captain  Cuttle,  Walter  could 
not  help  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  absence  of  this  sage, 
and  devoutly  hoping  that  his  limpid  intellect  might  not 
be  brought  to  bear  on  his  difficulties  until  they  were 
quite  settled. 

“ If  you  was  to  take  and  show  that  man  the  buoy  at 
the  Nore,”  said  Captain  Cuttle  in  the  same  tone,  “ and 
ask  him  his  opinion  of  it,  WaTr,  he’d  give  you  an  opinion 
that  was  no  more  like  that  buoy  than  your  uncle’s 
buttons  are.  There  an’t  a man  that  walks — certainly 
not  on  two  legs — that  can  come  near  him.  Not  near 
him  !” 

“ What’s  his  name,  Captain  Cuttle  V9  inquired  Walter, 
determined  to  be  interested  in  the  captain’s  friend. 

“ His  name’s  Bunsby,”  said  the  captain.  “ But  Lord, 
it  might  be  anything  for  the  matter  of  that,  with  such  a 
mind  as  his  ! ” 

The  exact  idea  which  the  captain  attached  to  this  com 
eluding  piece  of  praise,  he  did  not  further  elucidate  , 
neither  did  Walter  seek  to  draw  it  forth.  For  on  his 
beginning  to  review,  with  the  vivacity  natural  to  him- 
self and  to  his  situation,  the  leading  points  in  his  own 
affairs,  he  soon  discovered  that  the  captain  had  relapsed 
into  his  former  profound  state  of  mind  ; and  that  while 
he  eyed  him  steadfastly  from  beneath  his  bushy  eye- 
brows, he  evidently  neither  saw  nor  heard  him,  but  re- 
mained immersed  in  cogitation. 

In  fact,  Captain  Cuttle  was  labouring  with  such  great 
designs,  that  far  from  being  aground,  he  soon  got  off 
into  the  deepest  of  water,  and  could  find  no  bottom  to 
his  penetration.  By  degrees  it  became  perfectly  plain 
to  the  captain  that  there  was  some  mistake  here  ; that  it 
was  undoubtedly  much  more  likely  to  be  Walter’s  mis- 
take than  his  ; that  if  there  were  really  any  West  India 
scheme  afoot,  it  was  a very  different  one  from  what 
Walter,  who  was  young  and  rash,  supposed  ; and  could 
only  be  some  new  device  for  making  his  fortune  with 
unusual  celerity.  “ Or  if  there  should  beany  little  hitch 
between  ’em,”  thought  the  captain,  meaning  between 
Walter  and  Mr.  Dombey,  “ it  only  wants  a word  in  sea- 
son from  a friend  of  both  parties,  to  set  it  right  and 
smooth,  and  make  all  taut  again.”  Captain  Cuttle’s  de- 
duction from  these  considerations  was,  that  as  he  al- 
ready enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey* 
from  having  spent  a very  agreeable  half-hour  in  his 
company  at  Brighton  (on  the  morning  when  they  bor- 


538 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


rowed  the  money) ; and  that,  as  a couple  of  men  of  the 
world,  who  understood  each  other,  and  were  mutually 
disposed  to  make  things  comfortable,  could  easily  ar- 
range any  little  difficulty  of  this  sort,  and  come  at  the 
real  facts  ; the  friendly  thing  for  him  to  do  v/ould  be, 
without  saying  anything  about  it  to  Walter,  at  present 
just  to  step  up  to  Mr.  Bombey’s  house — say  to  the  ser- 
vant “ Would  ye  be  so  good,  my  lad,  as  report  Cap’en 
Cuttle  here  ? ” — meet  Mr.  Dombey  in  a confidential  spirit 
=~hook  him  by  the  button-hole — talk  it  over — make  it  all 
right — and  come  away  triumphant. 

As  these  reflections  presented  themselves  to  the  cap- 
tain’s mind,  and  by  slow  degrees  assumed  this  shape  and 
form,  his  visage  cleared  like  a doubtful  morning  when 
it  gives  place  to  a bright  noon.  His  eyebrows,  which 
had  been  in  the  highest  degree  portentous,  smoothed 
their  rugged  bristling  aspect,  and  became  serene  ; his 
eyes,  which  had  been  nearly  closed  in  the  severity  of  his 
mental  exercise,  opened  freely  ; a smile  which  had  been 
at  first  but  three  specks — one  at  the  right-hand  corner  of 
his  mouth,  and  one  at  the  corner  of  each  eye — gradually 
overspread  his  whole  face,  and  rippling  up  into  his  fore- 
head, lifted  the  glazed  hat : as  if  that  too  had  been 
aground  with  Captain  Cuttle,  and  were  now,  like  him, 
happily  afloat  again. 

Finally  the  captain  left  off  biting  his  nails,  and  said, 
i6  Now,  Wal’r,  my  boy,  you  may  help  me  on  with  them 
slops.”  By  which  the  captain  meant  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat. 

Walter  little  imagined  why  the  captain  was  so  partly 
ular  in  the  arrangement  of  liis  cravat,  as  to  twist  the 
pendent  ends  into  a sort  of  pigtail,  and  pass  them 
through  a massive  gold  ring  with  a picture  of  a tomb 
upon  it,  and  a neat  iron  railing,  and  a tree,  in  memory 
of  some  deceased  friend.  Nor  why  the  captain  pulled 
up  his  shirt  collar  to  the  utmost  limits  allowed  by  the 
Irish  linen  below,  and  by  so  doing  decorated  himself 
with  a complete  pair  of  blinkers  ; nor  why  he  changed 
his  shoes,  and  put  on  an  unparalleled  pair  of  ankie- 
jacks,  which  he  only  wore  on  extraordinary  occasions. 
The  captain  being  at  length  attired  to  his  own  complete 
satisfaction,  and  having  glanced  at  himself  from  head  to 
foot  in  a shaving-glass  which  he  removed  from  a nail 
for  that  purpose,  took  up  his  knotted  stick,  and  said  he 
was  ready. 

The  captain’s  walk  was  more  complacent  than  usual 
when  they  got  out  into  the  street ; but  this  WTalter  sup- 
posed to  be  the  effect  of  the  ankle- jacks,  and  took  little 
heed  of.  Before  they  had  gone  very  far,  they  encoun- 
tered a woman  selling  flowers ; when  the  captain  stop- 
ping short,  as  if  struck  by  a happy  idea,  made  a purchase 


DOMBSY  AND  SON. 


539 


of  the  largest  bundle  in  her  basket ; a most  glorious 
nosegay,  fan-shaped,  some  two  feet  and  a half  round, 
and  composed  of  all  the  j oiliest-]  ooking  flowers  that 
blow. 

Armed  with  this  little  token  which  he  designed  for 
Mr.  Dombey,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  on  with  Walter 
until  they  reached  the  Instrument-maker’s  door,  before 
which  they  both  paused. 

“ You’re  going  in?  ” said  Walter. 

“ Yes  returned  the  captain,  who  felt  that  Walter 
must  be  got  rid  of  before  he  proceeded  any  further,  and 
that  he  had  better  time  his  projected  visit  somewhat 
later  in  the  day. 

“ And  you  won’t  forget  anything?  ” said  Walter. 

“No,”  returned  the  captain. 

“I’ll  go  upon  my  walk  at  once,”  said  Walter,  “and 
then  I shall  be  out  of  the  way.  Captain  Cuttle.” 

“ Take  a good  long  ’un,  my  lad  !”  replied  the  captain, 
calling  after  him.  Walter  waved  his  hand  in  assent,  and 
went  his  way. 

His  way  was  nowhere  in  particular  ; but  he  thought  he 
would  go  out  into  the  fields,  where  he  could  reflect  upon 
the  unknown  life  before  him,  and  resting  under  some 
tree,  ponder  quietly.  He  knew  no  better  fields  than 
those  near  Hampstead,  and  no  better  means  of  getting  at 
them  than  by  passing  Mr.  Dombey ’s  house. 

It  was  as  stately  and  as  dark  as  ever,  when  he  went  by 
&nd  glanced  up  at  its  frowning  front.  The  blinds  were 
all  pulled  down,  but  the  upper  windows  stood  wide  open, 
and  the  pleasant  air  stirring  those  curtains  and  waving 
them  to  and  fro*  was  the  only  sign  of  animation  in  the 
whole  exterior.  Walter  walked  softly  as  he  passed,  and 
was  glad  when  he  had  left  the  house  a door  or  two  be- 
hind. 

He  looked  back  then  ; with  the  interest  he  had  always 
felt  for  the  place  since  the  adventure  of  the  lost  child, 
years  ago  ; and  looked  especially  at  those  upper  windows. 
While  he  was  thus  engaged,  a chariot  drove  to  the  door, 
and  a portly  gentleman  in  black,  with  a heavy  watch- 
chain,  alighted,  and  went  in.  When  he  afterwards  re- 
membered this  gentleman  and  his  equipage  together, 
Walter  had  no  doubt  he  was  a physician;  and  then  he 
wondered  who  was  ill ; but  the  discovery  did  not  occur 
to  him  until  he  had  walked  some  distance,  thinking  list- 
lessly of  other  things. 

Though  still,  of  what  the  house  had  suggested  to  him  , 
for  Walter  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that  perhaps 
the  time  might  come,  -when  the  beautiful  child  who  was 
his  old  friend  and  had  always  been  so  grateful  to  him  and 
so  glad  to  see  him  since,  might  interest  her  brother  in 
his  behalf  and  influence  his  fortunes  for  the  better.  H© 


540 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


liked  to  imagine  this — more,  at  that  moment,  for  the 
pleasi  ire  of  imagining  her  continued  remembrance  of  him, 
than  for  any  worldly  profit  he  might  gain  : but  another 
and  more  sober  fancy  whispered  to  him  that  if  he  were 
alive  then,  he  would  be  beyond  the  sea  and  forgotten  ; 
she  married,  rich,  proud,  happy.  There  was  no  more 
reason  why  she  should  remember  him  with  any  interest 
in  such  an  altered  state  of  things,  than  any  plaything  she 
ever  had.  No,  not  so  much. 

Yet  Walter  so  idealised  the  pretty  child  whom  he  had 
found  wandering  in  the  rough  streets,  and  so  identified 
her  with  her  innocent  gratitude  of  that  night  and  the 
simplicity  and  truth  of  its  expression,  that  he  blushed 
for  himself  as  a libeller  when  he  argued  that  she  could 
ever  grow  proud.  On  the  other  hand,  his  meditations 
were  of  that  fantastic  order  that  it  seemed  hardly  less  li- 
bellous in  him  to  imagine  her  grown  a woman  : to  think 
of  her  as  anything  but  the  same  artless,  gentle,  winning 
little  creature,  that  she  had  been  in  the  days  of  good  Mrs. 
Brown.  In  a word,  Walter  found  out  that  to  reason  with 
himself  about  Florence  at  all,  was  to  become  very  un- 
reasonable indeed  ; and  that  he  could  do  no  better  than 
preserve  her  image  in  his  mind  as  something  precious, 
unattainable,  unchangeable,  and  indefinite — indefinite  in 
all  but  its  power  of  giving  him  pleasure,  and  restraining 
him  like  an  angel's  hand  from  anything  unworthy. 

It  was  a long  stroll  in  the  fields  that  Walter  took  that 
day,  listening  to  the  birds,  and  the  Sunday  bells,  and  the 
softened  murmur  of  the  town— breathing  sweet  scents  ; 
glancing  sometimes  at  the  dim  horizon  beyond  which  his 
voyage  and  his  place  of  destination  lay  ; then  looking 
round  on  the  green  English  grass  and  the  home  Ian  Escape. 
But  he  hardly  once  thought  even  of  going  away,  distinct- 
ly , and  seemed  to  put  off  reflection  idly,  from  hour  to 
hour,  and  from  minute  to  minute,  while  he  yet  went  on 
reflecting  all  the  time. 

Walter  had  left  the  fields  behind  him,  and  was  plod- 
ding homeward  in  the  same  abstracted  mood,  when  he 
heard  a shout  from  a man,  and  then  a woman’s  voice  call- 
ing to  him  loudly  by  name.  Turning  quickly  in  his 
surprise,  he  saw  that  a hackney-coach,  going  in  the  con- 
trary direction,  had  stopped  at  no  great  distance  ; that 
the  coachman  was  looking  back  from  his  box,  and  mak- 
ing signals  to  him  with  his  whip  ; and  that  a young 
woman  inside  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  beck- 
oning with  immense  energy.  Running  up  to  this  coach, 
he  found  that  the  young  woman  was  Miss  Nipper,  and 
that  Miss  Nipper  was  in  such  a flutter  as  to  be  almost 
beside  herself. 

“ Staggs’s  Gardens,  Mr.  Walter  I”  said  Miss  Nippers 
6*i£  you  please,  oh  do  !" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


541 


‘‘Eh  ?”  cried  Walter  : “ what  is  the  matter?” 

“Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  Staggs’s  Gardens,  if  you  please  1* 
said  Susan. 

f There  !”  cried  the  coachman,  appealing  to  Walter, 
with  a sort  of  exulting  despair  ; “ that’s  the  way  the 
young  lady’s  been  a goin’  on  for  up’ards  of  a mortal  hour, 
and  me  continivally  backing  out  of  no  thoroughfares, 
where  she  would  drive  up.  I’ve  had  a many  fares  in  this 
coach,  first  and  last,  but  never  such  a fare  as  her.” 

“ Do  you  want  to  go  to  Staggs’s  Gardens,  Susan  ? ” in* 
quired  Walter. 

tG  Ah  ! She  wants  to  go  there  ! Where  is  it  ? ” growled 
the  coachman. 

“ I don’t  know  where  it  is  ! ” exclaimed  Susan,  wildly. 
“Mr.  Walter,  I was  there  once  myself,  along  with  Miss 
Floy  and  our  poor  darling  Master  Paul,  on  the  very  day 
when  you  found  Miss  Floy  in  the  city,  for  we  lost  her 
coining  home,  Mrs.  Richards  and  me,  and  a mad  bull, 
and  Mrs.  Richards’  eldest,  and  though  I went  there 
afterwards,  I can’t  remember  where  it  is,  I thi:  it’s 
sunk  into  the  ground.  Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  don’t  desert 
me.  Staggs’s  Gardens,  if  you  please  ! Miss  Floy’s 
darling— all  our  darlings — little,  meek,  meek  Master 
Paul ! Oh  Mr.  Walter  ! ” 

“ Good  God  ! ” cried  Walter.  “ Is  he  very  ill  ? ” 

“ The  pretty  flower  S ” cried  Susan,  wringing  her 
hands,  “has  took  the  fancy  that  he’d  like  to  see  his  old 
nurse,  and  I’ve  come  to  bring  her  to  his  bedside,  Mrs. 
Staggs’s  of  Polly  Toodle’s  Gardens,  some  one  pray  !” 

Greatly  moved  by  what  he  heard,  and  catching  Susan’s 
earnestness  immediately,  Walter,  now  that  he  under- 
stood the  nature  of  her  errand,  dashed  into  it  with  such 
ardour  that  the  coachman  had  enough  to  do  to  follow 
closely  as  he  ran  before,  inquiring  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  the  way  to  Staggs’s  Gardens. 

There  was  no  such  place  as  Staggs’s  Gardens.  It  had 
vanished  from  the  earth.  Where  the  old  rotten  sum- 
mer-houses once  had  stood,  palaces  now  reared  their 
heads,  and  granite  columns  of  gigantic  girth  opened  a 
vista  to  the  railway  world  beyond.  The  miserable  waste 
ground,  where  the  refuse  matter  had  been  heaped  of 
yore,  was  swallowed  up  and  gone  ; and  in  its  frowsy 
stead  were  tiers  of  warehouses,  crammed  with  rich 
goods  and  co’stly  merchandise.  The  old  by-streets  now 
swarmed  with  passengers  and  vehicles  of  every  kind  : 
the  new  streets  that  had  stopped  disheartened  in  the 
mud  and  waggon-ruts,  formed  towns  within  themselves^ 
originating  wholesome  comforts  and  conveniences  be- 
longing to  themselves,  and  never  tried  nor  thought  of 
until  they  sprung  into  existence.  Bridges  that  had  led 
to  nothing,  led  to  villas,  gardens,  churches,  healthy 


542 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


public  walks.  The  carcasses  of  bouses,  and  beginnings 
of  new  thoroughfares,  had  started  off  upon  the  line  at 
steam’s  own  speed,  and  shot  away  into  the  country  in  a 
monster  train. 

As  to  the  neighbourhood  which  had  hesitated  to  ac- 
knowledge the  railroad  in  its  straggling  days,  that  haa 
grown  wise  and  penitent,  as  any  Christian  might  in  such 
a case,  and’’  now  boasted  of  its  powerful  and  prosperous 
relation.  There  were  railway  patterns  in  its  drapers5 
shops,  and  railway  journals  in  the  windows  of  its  news- 
men. There  were  railway  hotels,  coffee-houses,  lodging- 
houses,  boarding-houses  ; railway  plans,  maps,  views; 
wrappers,  bottles,  sandwich -boxes,  and  time-tables  • 
railway  hackney-coach  and  cabstands  ; railway  omni- 
buses, railway  streets  and  buildings,  railway  hangers- 
on  and  parasites,  and  flatterers  out  of  all  calculation. 
There  was  even  railway  time  observed  in  clocks,  as  if 
the  sun  itself  had  given  in.  Among  the  vanquished 
was  the  master  chimney-sweeper,  whilom  incredulous 
at  Staggs’s  Gardens,  who  now  lived  in  a stuccoed  house 
three  stories  high,  and  gave  himself  out,  with  golden 
flourishes  upon  a varnished  board,  as  contractor  for  the 
cleansing  of  railway  chimneys  by  machinery. 

To  and  from  the  heart  of  this  great  change,  all  day 
and  night,  throbbing  currents  rushed  and  returned  in- 
cessantly like  its  life’s  blood.  Crowds  of  people,  and 
mountains  of  goods,  departing  and  arriving  scores  upon 
scores  of  times  in  every  four-and-twenty  hours,  pro- 
duced a fermentation  in  the  place  that  was  always  in 
action.  The  very  houses  seemed  disposed  to  pack  up 
and  take  trips.  Wonderful  members  of  Parliament, 
who,  little  more  than  twenty  years  before,  had  made 
themselves  merry  with  the  wild  railroad  theories  of  en- 
gineers, and  given  them  the  liveliest  rubs  in  cross-exam- 
ination, went  down  into  the  north  with  their  watches  in 
their  hands,  and  sent  on  messages  before  by  the  electric 
telegraph  to  say  that  they  were  coming.  Night  and  day 
the  conquering  engines  rumbled  at  their  distant  work, 
or,  advancing  smoothly  to  their  journey’s  end,  and  glid- 
ing like  tame  dragons  into  the  allotted  corners  grooved 
out  to  the  inch  for  their  reception,  stood  bubbling  and 
trembling  there,  making  the  walls  auake,  as  if  they 
were  dilating  with  the  secret  knowledge  of  great  powers 
yet  unsuspected  in  them,  and  strong  purposes  not  yet 
achxeved. 

But  Staggs’s  Gardens  had  been  cut  up  root  and  branch. 
Oh  woe  the  day  ! when  “ not  a rood  of  English  ground  ” 
— laid  out  in  Staggs’s  Gardens — is  secure  ! 

At  last,  after  much  fruitless  inquiry,  Walter,  fol- 
lowed by  the  coach  and  Susan,  found  a man  who  had 
once  resided  in  that  vanished  land,  and  who  was  no 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


543 


other  than  the  master  sweep  before  referred  to,  grown 
stout,  and  knocking  a double  knock  at  his  own  door. 
He  knowed  Toodle,  he  said,  well.  Belonged  to  the 
Railroad,  didn’t  he?” 

“ Yes,  sir,  yes  ! ” cried  Susan  Kipper  from  the  coach 
window. 

Where  did  he  live  now  ? hastily  inquired  Walter. 

He  lived  in  the  company’s  own  buildings,  second  turn- 
ing to  the  right,  down  the  yard,  cross  over,  and  take  the 
second  on  the  right  again.  It  was  number  eleven  ; they 
couldn’t  mistake  it , but  if  they  did,  they  had  only  to 
ask  for  Toodle,  Engine  Fireman,  and  any  one  would 
show  then?  which  was  his  house.  At  this  unexpected 
stroke  of  success,  Susan  Kipper  dismounted  from  the 
coach  with  all  speed,  took  Walter’s  arm,  and  set  of?  at 
a breathless  pace  on  foot ; leaving  the  coach  there  to 
8^ wait  their  return. 

“Has  the  little  boy  been  long  ill,  Susan?  ” inquired 
Walter,  as  they  hurried  on. 

“Ailing  for  a deal  of  time,  but  no  one  knew  how 
much,”  said  Susan  ; adding,  with  excessive  sharpness, 
“Oh,  them  Blimbers  ! ” 

“Blimbers?”  echoed  Walter. 

“ 1 couldn’t  forgive  myself  at  such  a time  as  this,  Mr. 
Walter,”  said  Susan,  “ and  when  there’s  so  much  seri- 
ous distress  to  think  about,  if  I rested  hard  on  any  one, 
especially  on  them  that  little  darling  Paul  speaks  well 
of,  but  I may  wish  that  the  family  was  set  to  work  in  a 
stony  soil  to  make  new  roads,  and  that  Miss  Blimber 
went  in  front,  and  had  the’  pickaxe  ! ” 

Miss  Kipper  then  took  breath,  and  went  on  faster  than 
before,  as  if  this  extraordinary  aspiration  had  relieved 
her.  Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  no  breath  of  his  own 
to  spare,  hurried  along  without  asking  any  more  ques- 
tions ; and  they  soon,  in  their  impatience,  burst  in  at  a 
little  door  and  came  into  a clean  parlour  full  of  children. 

“Where’s  Mrs.  Richards  I”  exclaimed  Susan  Kipper, 
looking  round.  “Oh  Mrs.  Richards,  Mrs.  Richards, 
come  along  with  me,  my  dear  creetur  ! ” 

“ Why,  if  it  ain’t  Susan  ! ” cried  Polly  rising  with  her 
honest  fa<5e  and  motherly  figure  from  among  the  group, 
in  great  surprise. 

“'Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  it’s  me,”  said  Susan,  “and  I 
wish  it  wasn’t,  though  I may  not  seem  to  datter  when  I 
say  so,  but  little  Master  Paul  is  very  ill,  and  told  his  Pa 
to-day  that  he  would  like  to  see  the  face  of  his  old 
nurse,  and  him  and  Miss  Floy  hope  you’ll  come  along 
with  me — and  Mr.  Walter,  Mrs.  Richards — forgetting 
what  is  past,  and  do  a kindness  to  the  sweet  dear  that  is 
withering  away.  Oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  withering  away  !” 
Susan  Kipper  crying,  Polly  shed  tears  to  see  her,  and 


544 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  hear  what  she  had  said  ; and  all  the  children  gathered 
round  (including  numbers  of  new  babies)  ; and  Mr. 
Toodle  who  had  just  come  home  from  Birmingham,  and 
was  eating  his  dinner  out  of  a basin,  laid  down  his  knife 
and  fork,  and  put  on  his  wife’s  bonnet  and  shawl  for  her, 
which  were  hanging  up  behind  the  door  ; then  tapped 
her  on  the  back  ; and  said  with  more  fatherly  feeling 
than  eloquence,  “Polly  ! cut  away  i” 

So  they  got  back  to  the  coach,  long  before  the  coach- 
man expected  them  ; and  Walter  putting  Susan  and 
Mrs.  Richards  inside,  took  his  seat  on  the  box  himself 
that  there  might  be  no  more  mistakes,  and  deposited 
them  safely  in  the  hall  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  house — where, 
by  the  bye,  he  saw  a mighty  nosegay  lying,  which  re- 
minded him  of  the  one  Captain  Cuttle  had  purchased  in 
his  company  that  morning.  He  would  have  lingered  to 
know  more  of  the  young  invalid,  or  waited  any  length 
of  time  to  see  if  he  could  render  the  least  service  ' 
but  painfully  sensible  that  such  conduct  would  be 
looked  upon  by  Mr.  Dombey  as  presumptuous  and  for- 
ward, he  turned  slowly,  sadly,  anxiously,  away. 

He  had  not  gone  five  minutes’  walk  from  the  door, 
when  a man  came  running  after  him,  and  begged  him 
to  return.  Walter  retraced  his  steps  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  and  entered  the  gloomy  house  with  a sorrowful 
foreboding. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

What  the  Waves  were  alivays  saying. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay 
there,  listening  to  the  noises  in  the  street,  quite  tran- 
quilly ; not  caring  much  how  time  went,  but  watching 
it  and  watching  everything  about  him  with  observing 
eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through  the 
rustling  blinds,  and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall  like 
golden  water,  he  knew  that  evening  was  coming  on, 
and  that  the  sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflee 
tion  died  away,  and  a gloom  went  creeping  up  *the  wall, 
he  watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen,  into  night.  Then 
he  thought  how  the  long  streets  were  dotted  with  lamps, 
and  how  the  peaceful  stars  were  shining  overhead.  His 
fancy  had  a strange  tendency  to  wander  to  the  river, 
which  he  knew  was  flowing  through  the  great  city  : and 
now  he  thought  how'  black  it  was,  and  how  deep  it 
would  look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars — and  more  than 
all,  how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the 
street  became  so  rare  that  he  could  hear  them  coming, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


545 


count  them  as  they  passed,  and  lose  them  in  the  hollow 
distance,  he  would  lie  and  watch  the  many-coloured 
ring  about  the  candle  and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His 
only  trouble  was,  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt 
forced,  sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it — to  stem  it  with  his 
childish  hands — or  choke  its  way  with  sand — and  when 
he  saw  it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried  out ! But  a 
word  from  Florence,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  re- 
stored him  to  himself  ; and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon 
her  breast,  he  told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for  the 
sun  ; and  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself — pictured  ! he  saw — 
the  high  church  towers  rising  up  into  the  morning  sk}r, 
the  town  reviving,  waking,  starting,  into  life  once  more, 
the  river,  glistening  as  it  rolled  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever), 
and  the  country  bright  with  dew.  Familiar  sounds  and 
cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  street  below  ; the  ser- 
vants in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy  ; faces  looked 
in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants  softly 
how  he  was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself,  “ I am 
better.  I am  a great  deal  better,  thank  you  ! Tell  papa 
so  r 

By  little  and  little,  he  got  tired  of  the  bustle  of  the 
day,  the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and  people  passing 
and  re-passing  ; and  would  fall  asleep,  or  be  troubled 
with  a restless  and  uneasy  sense  again — the  child  could 
hardly  tell  whether  this  were  in  his  sleeping  or  his  wak- 
ing moments — of  that  rushing  river.  “ Why,  will  it 
never  stop,  Floy  ? ” he  would  sometimes  ask  her.  “ It 
is  bearing  me  away,  1 think  ! ” 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  reassure  him  ; and 
it  was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  head  down 
on  his  pillow,  and  take  some  rest. 

“ You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy.  Let  me  watch 
you , now  ! ” They  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions 
in  a corner  of  his  bed,  and  there  he  would  recline  the 
while  she  lay  beside  him  ; bending  forward  oftentimes 
to  kiss  her,  and  whispering  to  those  who  were  near  that 
she  was  tired,  and  how  she  had  sat  up  so  many  nights 
beside  him. 

Thus,  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and  light,  would 
gradually  decline  ; and  again  the  golden  water  would 
be  dancing  on  the  wall. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors— 
they  used  to  assemble  down-stairs,  and  come  up  together 
—and  the  room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so  observant 
of  them  (though  he  never  asked  of  anybody  what  they 
said),  that  lie  even  knew  the  difference  in  the  sound  of 
their  watches.  But  his  interest  centred  in  Sir  Parker 
Peps,  who  always  took  his  seat  on  the  side  of  the  bed* 


546 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


For  Paul  had  heard  them  say  long  ago,  that  that  gentle, 
man  had  been  with  his  mamma  when  she  clasped  Flor- 
ence in  her  arms,  and  died.  And  l?e  could  not  forget  it, 
now.  He  liked  him  for  it.  He  was  not  afraid. 

The  people  round  him  changed  as  unaccountably  as  on 
that  first  night  at  Doctor  Blimber’s — except  Florence  ; 
Florence  never  changed — and  what  had  been  Sir  Parker 
Peps,  was  now  his  father,  sitting  with  his  head  upon  his 
hand.  Old  Mrs.  Pipchin  dozing  in  an  easy  chair,  often 
changed  to  Miss  Tox,  or  his  aunt ; and  Paul  was  quite 
content  to  shut  his  eyes  again,  and  see  what  happened 
next  without  emotion.  But  this  figure  with  its  head 
upon  its  hand  returned  so  often,  and  remained  so  long, 
and  sat  so  still  and  solemn,  never  speaking,  never  being 
spoken  to,  and  rarely  lifting  up  its  face,  that  Paul  began 
to  wonder  languidly,  if  it  were  real ; and  in  the  night' 
time  saw  it  sitting  there,  with  fear. 

“ Floy  !”  he  said.  “ What  is  that  ? ” 

“ Where,  dearest  ? ” 

“ There  ! at  the  bottom  of  the  bed.” 

“ There’s  nothing  there,  except  papa  ! ” 

The  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and  coming  to 
the  bedside,  said:  “My  own  boy!  Don’t  you  know 
me?” 

Paul  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  thought,  was  this 
his  father  ? But  the  face,  so  altered  to  his  thinking, 
thrilled  while  he  gazed,  as  if  it  were  in  pain  ; and  before 
he  could  reach  out  both  his  hands  to  take  it  between 
them,  and  draw  it  towards  him,  the  figure  turned  away 
quickly  from  the  little  bed,  and  went  out  at  the  door. 

Paul  looked  at  Florence  with  a fluttering  heart,  but 
he  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  stopped  her 
with  his  face  against  her  lips.  The  next  time  he  ob- 
served the  figure  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  he 
called  to  it. 

“Don’t  be  so  sorry  for  me,  dear  papa  ! Indeed  I am 
quite  happy  ! ” 

His  father  coming,  and  bending  down  to  him — which 
he  did  quickly,  and  without  first  pausing  by  the  bedside 
—Paul  held  him  round  the  neck,  and  repeated  those 
words  to  him  several  times,  and  very  earnestly  ; and 
Paul  never  saw  him  in  his  room  again  at  any  time, 
whether  it  were  day  or  night,  but  he  called  out,  “Don’t 
be  so  sorry  for  me  ! Indeed  I’m  quite  happy  ! 99  This 
was  the  beginning  of  his  always  saying  in  the  morning 
that  he  was  a great  deal  better,  and  that  they  were  to 
tell  his  father  so. 

How  many  times  the  golden  water  danced  upon  the 
wall  ; how  many  nights  the  dark,  dark  river  rolled  to- 
wards the  sea  in  spite  of  him  ; Paul  never  counted, 
never  sought  to  know.  If  their  kindness  or  his  sense  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


547 


it,  could  have  increased,  they  were  more  kind,  and  he 
more  grateful  every  day  ; but  whether  they  were  many 
days  or  few,  appeared  of  little  moment  now  to  the  gentle 
boy. 

One  night  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother,  and  her 
picture  in  the  drawing-room  down-stairs, and  had  thought 
she  must  have  loved  sweet  Florence  better  than  his  father 
did,  to  have  held  her  in  her  arms  when  she  felt  that  she 
was  dying — for  even  he,  her  brother,  who  had  such  dear 
love  for  her,  could  have  no  greater  wish  than  that. 
The  train  of  thought  suggested  to  him  to  inquire  if  he 
had  ever  seen  his  mother for  he  could  not  remember 
whether  they  had  told  him  yes  or  no,  the  river  running 
very  fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

“ Floy,  did  I ever  see  mama?” 

“ No,  darling,  why?” 

“ Did  I never  see  any  kind  face,  like  mama’s,  looking 
at  me  when  I was  a baby,  Floy  ? ” 

He  asked,  incredulously,  as  if  ho  had  some  vision  of  a 
face  before  him. 

* ‘ Oh  yes,  dear  ! 99 

“ Whose,  Floy  ?” 

“ Your  old  nurse’s.  Often.” 

“ And  where  is  my  old  nurse  ! ” said  Paul.  “ Is  she 
dead  too?  Floy,  are  we  all  dead,  except  you?” 

There  was  a hurry  in  the  room  for  an  instant — longer, 
perhaps  ; but  it  seemed  no  more — then  all  was  still 
again  ; and  Florence,  with  her  face  quite  colourless, 
but  smiling,  held  his  head  upon  her  arm.  Her  arm 
trembled  very  much. 

“ Show  me  that  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please  ! ” 

“She  is  not  here,  darling.  She  shall  come  to-mor- 
row.” 

“ Than&  you,  Floy  ! 99 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day 
was  clear  and  warm.  He  lay  a little,  looking  at  the  win- 
dows, which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in  the 
air,  and  waving  to  and  fro  : then  he  said,  “ Floy,  is  it 
to-morrow  ? Is  she  come  ? ” 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  Susan.  Paul  thought  he  heard  her  telling  him 
when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon 
be  back  ; but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept 
her  word— -perhaps  she  had  never  been  away— but  the 
next  thing  that  happened  was  a noise  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke— woke  mind  and  body — and 
sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them  now  about  him. 
There  was  no  grey  mist  before  them,  as  there  had  been 
sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them  every  one,  and 
called  them  by  their  names. 


548 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


" And  who  is  this  ? Is  this  my  old  nurse? ” said  the 
child,  regarding  with  a radiant  smile,  a figure  coming 
in. 

Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those 
tears  at  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy, 
her  pretty  boy,  her  own  poor  blighted  child.  No  other 
woman  would  have  stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken 
up  his  wasted  hand,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast, 
as  one  who  had  some  right  to  fondle  it.  No  other  wo- 
man would  have  so  forgotten  everybody  there  but 
him  and  Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness  and 

pity. 

44  Floy  this  is  a kind  good  face  ! ” said  Paul.  44  I am 

flad  to  see  it  again.  Don’t  go  away,  old  nurse  ! Stay 
ere  ! ” 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a name 
he  knew. 

44  Who  was  that,  who  said  4 Walter  ?’  ” he  asked, 
looking  round.  44  Some  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here  ? 
1 should  like  to  see  him  very  much.” 

Nobody  replied  directly  ; but  his  lather  soon  said  to 
Susan,  44  Call  him  back,  then  : let  him  come  up  ! ” After 
a short  pause  of  expectation,  during  which  he  looked 
with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  his  nurse,  and 
saw  that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was 
brought  into  the  room.  His  open  face  and  manner,  and 
his  cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him  a favourite 
with  Paul ; and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he  stretched  out 
his  hand,  and  said,  44  Hood-bye  ! ” 

44  Good-bye,  my  child  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying 
to  his  bed’s  head.  44  Not  good-bye  ? ” 

For  an  instant  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wistful 
face  with  which  he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his 
corner  by  the  fire.  44  Ah  yes,”  he  said,  placidly,  “good- 
bye ! Walter  dear,  good-bye  ! ” — turning  his  head  to 
where  he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  again. 
44  Where  is  papa  ? ” 

He  felt  his  father’s  breath  upon  his  cheek,  before  the 
words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

44  Remember  Walter,  dear  papa,”  he  whispered,  look- 
ing in  his  face.  ‘‘Remember  Walter.  I was  fond  of 
Walter  ! ” The  feeble  hand  waved  in  the  aii%  as  if  it 
cried  44  good-bye  ! ” to  Walter  once  again. 

44  Now  lay  me  down,”  he  said,  44  and  Floy,  come  close 
to  me  and  let  me  see  you  ! ” 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each 
other,  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell 
upon  them  locked  together. 

44  How  fast  the  river  runs,  between  its  green  banks 
and  the  rushes,  Floy  ! But  it’s  very  near  the  sea.  I hear 
the  waves  ! They  always  said  so  1 99 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


549 


Presently  lie  told  lier  tliat  the  motion  of  the  boat  upon 
the  stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green  the  hanks 
were  now,  how  bright  the  flowers  growing  on  them,  and 
how  tall  the  rushes  ! Now  the  boat  was  out  at  sea,  but 

gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now  there  was  a shore  before 
im.  Who  stood  on^the  bank  ! — 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do 
at  his  prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it ; but 
they  saw  him  fold  them  so,  behind  her  neck. 

“ Mama  is  like  you,  Floy.  I know  her  by  the  face  1 
But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is 
not  divine  enough.  The  light  about  the  head  is  shining 
on  me  as  I go  ! " 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and 
nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion  [ 
The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  garments,  and 
will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course, 
and  the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a scroll.  The 
old,  old  fashion — Death  ! 

Oh  thank  God,  all  who  see  it.  for  that  older  fashion 
yet,  of  Immortality  ! And  look  upon  us,  angels  of  young 
children,  with  regards  not  quite  estranged,  when  the 
swift  river  bears  us  to  the  ocean  ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Captain  Cuttle  does  a,  little  Business  for  the  Young  People. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  exercise  of  that  surprising 
talent  for  deep-laid  and  unfathomable  scheming,  with 
which  (as  is  not  unusual  in  men  of  transparent  simplici- 
ty) he  sincerely  believed  himself  to  be  endowed  by  na- 
ture, had  gone  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house  on  the  eventful 
Sunday,  winking  all  the  way  as  a vent  for  his  superfluous 
sagacity,  and  had  presented  himself  in  the  full  lustre  of 
the  ankle-jacks  before  the  eyes  of  Towlinsoc.  Hearing 
from  that  individual,  to  his  great  concern,  of  the  impend- 
ing calamity,  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  delicacy,  sheered  off 
again  confounded  ; merely  handing  in  the  nosegay  as  a 
small  mark  of  his  solicitude,  and  leaving  his  respectful 
compliments  for  the  family  in  general,  which  he  accom- 
panied with  an  expression  of  his  hope  that  they  would 
iay  their  heads  well  to  the  wind  under  existing  circum- 
stances, and  a friendly  intimation  that  he  would  “ look 
up  again  ''  to-morrow. 

The  captain's  compliments  were  never  heard  of  any 
more.  The  captain's  nosegay,  after  lying  in  the  hall  all 
night,  was  swept  into  the  dust-binn  next  morning  ; and 
the  captain's  sly  arrangement,  involved  in  one  catastrophe 
with  greater  hopes  and  loftier  designs*  was  crushed  to 


550 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pieces.  So,  when  an  avalanche  bears  down  a mountain* 
forest,  twigs  and  bushes  suffer  with  the  trees,  and  all 
perish  together. 

When  Walter  returned  home  on  the  Sunday  evening 
from  his  long  walk,  and  its  memorable  close,  he  was  too 
much  occupied  at  first  by  the  tidings  he  had  to  give  them, 
and  by  the  emotions  naturally  awakened  in  his  breast  by 
the  scene  through  which  he  had  passed,  to  observe  either 
that  his  uncle  was  evidently  unacquainted  with  the  in 
telligence  the  captain  had  undertaken  to  impart,  or  that 
the  captain  made  signals  with  his  hook,  warning  him  to 
avoid  the  subject.  Not  that  the  captain’s  signals  were 
calculated  to  have  proved  very  comprehensible,  however 
attentively  observed  ; for,  like  those  Chinese  sages  who 
are  said  in  their  conferences  to  write  certain  learned 
words  in  the  air  that  are  wholly  impossible  of  pronunci 
ation,  the  captain  made  such  waves  and  flourishes  as 
nobody  without  a previous  knowledge  of  his  mystery, 
would  have  been  at  all  likely  to  understand. 

Captain  Cuttle,  however,  becoming  cognisant  of  what 
had  happened,  relinquished  these  attempts,  as  he  per 
ceived  the  slender  chance  that  now  existed  of  his  be 
ing  able  to  obtain  a little  easy  chat  with  Mr.  Dombey 
before  the  period  of  Waiter’s  departure.  But  in  admit- 
ting to  himself,  with  a disappointed  and  crest-fallen 
countenance,  that  Sol  Gills  must  be  told,  and  that  Wal 
ter  must  go— -taking  the  case  for  the  present  as  he  found 
it,  and  not  having  it  enlightened  or  improved  before 
hand  by  the  knowing  management  of  a friend — the  cap 
tain  still  felt  an  unabated  confidence  that  he,  Ned  Cuttle, 
was  the  man  for  Mr.  Dombey  ; and  that,  to  set  Walter’s 
fortunes  quite  square,  nothing  was  wanted  hut  that  they 
two  should  come  together.  For  the  captain  never  could 
forget  how  well  he  and  Mr.  Dombey  had  got  on  at  Brigh 
ton  ; with  what  nicety  each  of  them  had  put  in  a word 
when  it  was  wanted;  how  exactly  they  had  taken  one 
another’s  measure  ; nor  how  Ned  Cuttle  had  pointed  out 
that  resource  in  the  first  extremity,  and  had  brought  the 
interview  to  the  desired  termination.  On  all  these 
grounds  the  captain  soothed  himself  with  thinking  that 
though  Ned  Cuttle  was  forced  by  the  pressure  of  events 
to  “ stand  by”  almost  useless  for  the  present,  Ned  would 
fetch  up  with  a wet  sail  in  good  time,  and  carry  all  be- 
fore him. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  good-natured  delusion, 
Captain  Cuttle  even  went  so  far  as  to  revolve  in  his  own 
bosom,  while  he  sat  looking  at  Walter  and  listening 
with  a tear  on  his  shirt-collar  to  what  he  related,  whether 
it  might  not  he  at  once  genteel  and  politic  to  give  Mr. 
Dombey  a verbal  invitation,  whenever  they  should  meet, 
to  come  and  cut  his  mutton  in  Brig  Place  on  some  day 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


551 


of  his  own  naming,  £nd  enter  on  the  question  of  hia 
young  friend’s  prospects  over  a social  glass.  But  the 
uncertain  temper  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  the  possibility 
of  her  setting  up  her  rest  in  the  passage  during  such  an 
entertainment,  and  there  delivering  some  homily  of  an 
uncomplimentary  nature,  operated  as  a check  on  the 
captain’s  hospitable  thoughts,  and  rendered  him  timid 
of  givii-ig  them  encouragement. 

One  fact  was  quite  clear  to  the  captain,  as  Walter,  sit- 
ting thoughtfully  over  his  un tasted  dinner,  dwelt  on  all 
that  had  happened ; namely,  that  however  Walter’s 
modesty  might  stand  in  the  way  of  his  perceiving  it  him- 
self, he  was,  as  one  might  say,  a member  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s  family.  He  had  been,  in  his  own  person,  connected 
with  the  incident  he  so  pathetically  described  ; he  had 
been  by  name  remembered  and  commended  in  close  as- 
sociation with  it ; and  his  fortunes  must  have  a particu- 
lar interest  in  his  employer’s  eyes.  If  the  captain  had 
any  lurking  doubt  whatever  of  his  own  conclusions,  he 
had  not  the  least  doubt  that  they  were  good  conclusions 
for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  Instrument-maker.  There- 
fore he  availed  himself  of  so  favourable  a moment  for 
breaking  the  West  Indian  intelligence  to  his  old  friend, 
as  a piece  of  extraordinary  preferment ; declaring  that 
for  his  part  he  would  freely  give  a hundred  thousand 
pounds  (if  he  had  it)  for  Walter’s  gain  in  the  long-run, 
and  that  he  had  no  doubt  such  an  investment  would  yield 
a handsome  premium. 

Solomon  Gills  was  at  first  stunned  by  the  communica- 
tion, which  fell  upon  the  little  back  parlour  like  a thun- 
derbolt, and  tore  up  the  hearth  savagely.  But  the  cap- 
tain flashed  such  golden  prospects  before  his  dim  sight : 
hinted  so  mysteriously  at  Whittingtonian  consequences  : 
laid  such  emphasis  on  what  Walter  had  just  now  told 
them  : and  appealed  to  it  so  confidently  as  a corrobora- 
tion of  his  predictions,  and  a great  advance  towards  the 
realization  of  the  romantic  legend  of  Lovely  Peg  : that 
he  bewildered  the  old  man.  Walter  for  his  part,  feigned 
to  be  so  full  of  hope  and  ardour,  and  so  sure  of  coming 
home  again  soon,  and  backed  up  the  captain  with  such 
expressive  shakings  of  his  head  and  rubbings  of  his 
hands,  that  Solomon,  looking  first  at  him  and  then  at 
Captain  Cuttle,  began  to  think  he  ought  to  be  transported 
with  joy. 

i£  But  I’m  behind  the  time,  you  understand,”  he  ob- 
served in  apology,  passing  his  hand  nervously  down  the 
whole  row  of  bright  buttons  on  . his  coat,  and  then  up 
again,  as  if  they  were  beads  and  he  were  telling  them 
twice  over  : “ and  I would  rather  have  my  dear  boy  here. 
It’s  an  old-fashioned  notion,  I dare  say.  He  was  always 
fond  of  the  sea.  He’s  ” — and  he  looked  wistfully  at 
Walter— * 4 he’s  glad  to  go.” 


552 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Uncle  Sol  ! 5 cried  Walter,  quickly,  “ if  you  say  that, 
I won't  go.  No,  Captain  Cuttle,  I won’t.  If  my  uncle 
thinks  I could  be  glad  to  leave  him,  though  I am  going 
to  be  made  Governor  of  all  the  Islands  in  the  West  In- 
dies, that’s  enough.  Fm  a fixture.” 

“ Wal’r,  my  lad,”  said  the  captain.  “Steady!  Sol 
Gills,  take  an  observation  of  your  nevy.” 

Following  with  his  eyes  the  majestic  action  of  the 
captain’s  hook,  the  old  man  looked  at  Waiter. 

“ Here  is  a certain  craft,”  said  the  captain,  with  a 
magnificent  sense  of  the  allegory  into  wdrich  he  was  soar 
ing,  “ a-going  to  put  out  on  a certain  voyage.  What 
name  is  wrote  upon  that  craft  indelibly  ? Is  it  The  Gay  ? 
or,”  said  the  captain  raising  his  voice  as  much  as  to  say, 
observe  the  point  of  this,  “is  it  The  Gills?” 

“Ned,”  said  the  old  man,  drawing  Waiter  to  his  side, 
and  taking  his  arm  tenderly  through  his,  “ I know.  I 
know.  Of  course  I know  that  Wally  considers  me  more 
than  himself  always.  That’s  in  my  mind.  When  I say  he 
is  glad  to  go,  I mean  I hope  he  is.  Eh  ? look  you,  Ned, 
and  you  too,  Wally,  my  dear,  this  is  new  and  unexpected 
to  me  ; and  I am  afraid  my  being  behind  the  time,  and 
poor,  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Is  it  really  good  fortune 
for  him,  do  you  tell  me,  now  ? ” said  the  old  man,  look' 
ing  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other.  “ Really  and  truly  ■ 
Is  it  ? I can  reconcile  myself  to  almost  anything  that 
advances  Wally,  but  I won’t  have  Wally  putting  him- 
self at  any  disadvantage  for  me,  or  keeping  anything 
from  me.  You,  Ned  Cuttle  !”  said  the  old  man,  fasten- 
ing on  the  captain,  to  the  manifest  confusion  of  that 
diplomatist;  “are  you  dealing  plainly  by  your  old 
friend?  Speak  out,  Ned  Cuttle.  Is  there  anything  be- 
hind ? Ought  he  to  go  ? How  do  you  know  it  first,  and 
why  ? ” 

As  it  was  a contest  of  affection  and  self-denial,  Waite? 
struck  in  with  infinite  effect,  to  the  captain’s  relief  ; and 
between  them  they  tolerably  reconciled  old  Sol  Gills,  by 
continued  talking,  to  the  project ; or  rather  so  confused 
him,  that  nothing,  not  even  the  pain  of  separation,  was 
distinctly  clear  to  his  mind. 

He  had  not  much  time  to  balance  the  matter  ; for  on 
the  very  next  day,  Walter  received  from  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager,  the  necessary  credentials  for  his  passage  and 
outfit,  together  with  the  information  that  the  Son  and 
Heir  would  sail  in  a fortnight,  or  within  a day  or  two 
afterwards  at  latest.  In  the  hurry  of  preparation  : 
which  Walter  purposely  enhanced  as  much  as  possible  ; 
the  old  man  lost  what  little  self-possession  he  ever  had  ; 
and  so  the  time  of  departure  drew  on  rapidly. 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  make  himself  ac- 
quainted with  all  that  passed,  through  inquiries  of  Wak 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


553 


ter  from  day  to  day,  found  the  time  still  tending’  on  to- 
wards his  going  away  without  any  occasion  offering 
itself,  or  seeming  likely  to  offer  itself,  for  a better  un 
derstanding  of  his  position.  It  was  after  much  consider 
ation  of  this  fact,  and  much  pondering  over  such  an  un 
fortunate  combination  of  circumstances,  that  a bright 
idea  occurred  to  the  captain.  Suppose  he  made  a call  on 
Mr.  Carker,  and  tried  to  find  out  from  him  how  the  land 
really  lay  ! 

Captain  Cuttle  liked  this  idea  very  much.  It  came 
upon  him  in  a moment  of  inspiration,  as  he  was  smoking 
an  early  pipe  in  Brig-place  after  breakfast  ; and  it  was 
worthy  of  the  tobacco.  It  would  quiet  his  conscience, 
which  was  an  honest  one,  and  wras  made  a little  uneasy 
by  what  Walter  had  confided  to  him,  and  what  Sol  Gills 
had  said  ; and  it  would  be  a deep,  shrewd  act  of  friendship 
He  would  sound  Mr.  Carker  carefully,  and  say  much  ci 
dttle,  just  as  he  read  that  gentleman’s  character,  and 
discovered  that  they  got  on  well  together  or  the  reverse. 

Accordingly,  without  the  fear  ef  Walter  before  his 
eyes  (who  he  knew  was  at  home  packing),  Captain  Cuttle 
again  assumed  his  ankle-jacks  and  mourning  brooch,  and 
issued  forth  on  this  second  expedition.  He  purchased  no 
propitiatory  nosegay  on  the  present  occasion,  as  he  was 
going  to  a place  of  business  ; but  be  put  a small  sun 
flower  in  his  button -hole  to  give  himself  an  agreeable 
relish  of  the  country  ; and  with  this,  and  the  knobby 
stick,  and  the  glazed  hat,  bore  down  upon  the  offices  of 
Dombey  and  Son. 

After  taking  a glass  of  warm  rum-and-water  at  a 
tavern  close  by,  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  captain  made 
a rush  down  the  court  lest  its  good  effects  should  evapo- 
rate, and  appeared  suddenly  to  Mr.  Perch. 

“ Matey,”  said  the  captain,  in  persuasive  accents. 

One  of  your  governors  is  named  Carker.” 

Mr.  Perch  admitted  it  ; hut  gave  him  to  understand, 
as  in  official  duty  hound,  that  all  his  governors  were  en- 
gaged, and  never  expected  to  be  disengaged  any  more 

“ Look’ee  here,  mate,”  said  the  captain  in  his  ear  , 

my  name’s  Cap’en  Cuttle.” 

The  captain  would  have  hooked  Perch  gently  to  him> 
but  Mr.  Perch  eluded  the  attempt  ; not  so  much  in  de- 
sign, as  in  starting  at  the  sudden  thought  that  such  a 
weapon  unexpectedly  exhibited  to  Mrs.  Perch  might,  in 
her  then  delicate  condition,  be  destructive  to  that  lady’s 
hopes. 

“ If  you’ll  be  so  good  as  just  report  Cap’en  Cuttle  here, 
when  you  get  a chance,”  said  the  captain,  <f  I’ll  wait.” 

Saying  which,  the  captain  took  his  seat  on  Mr.  Perch’s 
bracket,  and  drawing  out  his  handkerchief  from  the 
crown  of  the  glazed  hat,  which  he  jammed  between  his 
-X  Vol.  11 


554 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


knees  (without  injury  to  its  shape,  for  nothing  human 
could  bend  it),  rubbed  his  head  well  all  over,  and  ap> 
peared  refreshed.  He  subsequently  arranged  his  hair 
with  his  hook,  and  sat  looking  round  the  office,  concern 
plating  the  clerks  with  a serene  aspect. 

The  captain's  equanimity  was  so  impenetrable,  and  he 
was  altogether  so  mysterious  a being,  that  Perch  the 
messenger  was  daunted. 

“ What  name  was  it  you  said?”  asked  Mr.  Perch, 
bending  down  over  him  as  he  sat  on  the  bracket. 

“ Cap'en,”  in  a deep  hoarse  whisper. 

“ Yes,”  said  Mr.  Perch,  keeping  time  with  his  head. 

“Cuttle.” 

“ Oh  1”  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  the  same  tone,  for  he 
caught  it,  and  couldn't  help  it ; the  captain  in  his  diplo- 
macy, was  so  impressive.  “ I'll  see  if  he's  disengaged 
now.  I don't  know.  Perhaps  he  may  be  for  a minute.” 

“ Ay,  ay,  my  lad,  I won't  detain  him  longer  than  a 
minute,”  said  the  captain,  nodding  with  all  the  weighty 
importance  tbat  he  felt  within  him.  Perch,  soon  re- 
turning, said,  “ Will  Captain  Cuttle  walk  this  way?” 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug 
before  the  empty  fire-place,  which  was  ornamented  with 
a castellated  sheet  of  brown  paper,  looked  at  the  captain 
as  he  came  in,  with  no  very  special  encouragement. 

“ Mr.  Carker  ? ” said  Captain  Cuttle. 

“ I believe  so,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his  teeth. 
The  captain  liked  his  answering  with  a smile  t it  looked 
pleasant.  “ You  see,”  began  the  captain,  rolling  his 
eyes  slowly  round  the  little  room,  and  taking  in  as  much 
of  it  as  his  shirt  collar  permitted  ; “I'm  a seafaring  man 
myself,  Mr,  Carker,  and  Wal'r,  as  is  on  your  books  here, 
is  a’ most  a son  of  mine.” 

“Walter  Gay?”  said  Mr,  Carker,  showing  all  his 
teeth  again. 

“ Wal'r  Gay  it  is,”  replied  the  captain,  “ right ! ” The 
captain's  manner  expressed  a warm  approval  of  Mr. 
Carker's  quickness  of  perception.  “ I'm  a intimate 
friend  of  his  and  his  uncle's.  Perhaps,”  said  the  cap 
tain,  “ you  may  have  heard  your  head  governor  mention 
my  name  ? — Captain  Cuttle.” 

“ No  !”  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a still  wider  demonstra 
tion  than  before. 

“ Well,”  resumed  the  captain,  “I've  the  pleasure  oi 
his  acquaintance.  I waited  upon  him  down  on  the  Sus 
sex  coast  there,  with  my  young  friend  Wal'r,  when — in 
short,  when  there  was  a little  accommodation  wanted.' 
The  captain  nodded  his  head  in  a manner  that  was  ai 
once  comfortable,  easy,  and  expressive.  “You  re« 
member,  I dare  say  ?” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


555 


“ I think,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  I had  the  honour  of  ar. 
ranging  the  business.” 

“ To  be  sure  ! ” returned  the  captain.  “ Right  again  ] 
you  had.  Now  I’ve  took  the  liberty  of  coming  here — ” 

“Won’t  you  sit  down?”  said  Mr.  Carker,  smiling. 

“ Thank’ee,”  returned  the  captain,  availing  himself 
of  the  offer.  “ A man  does  get  more  way  upon  himself, 
perhaps,  in  his  conversation,  when  he  sits  down.  Won’t 
you  take  a cheer  yourself  ?” 

“ No  thank  you,”  said  the  manager,  standing,  perhaps 
from  the  force  of  winter  habit,  with  his  back  against  the 
chimney-piece,  and  looking  down  upon  the  captain  with 
an  eye-in  every  tooth  and  gum.  “You  have  taken  the 
liberty,  you  were  going  to  say —though  it’s  none — ” 

“ Thank’ee  kindly,  my  lad,”  returned  the  captain  : 
“ of  coming  here,  on  account  of  my  friend  Wal’r.  Sol 
Gills,  his  uncle,  is  a man  of  science,  and  in  science  he 
may  be  considered  a clipper  ; but  he  ain’t  what  I should 
altogether  call  a able  seaman — not  a man  of  practice. 
Wal’r  is  as  trim  a lad  as  ever  stepped  ; but  he’s  a little 
down  by  the  head  in  one  respect,  and  that  is  modesty. 
Now  what  I should  wish  to  put  to  you,”  said  the  captain, 
lowering  his  voice,  and  speaking  in  a kind  of  confidential 
growl,  “in  a friendly  way,  entirely  between  you  and  me, 
and  for  my  own  private  reckoning, ’till  your  head  gover- 
nor has  wore  round  a bit,  and  I can  come  alongside  of  him, 
is  this. — Is  everything  right  and  comfortable  here,  and 
is  Wal’r  out’ard  bound  with  a pretty  fair  wind  ?” 

“ What  do  you  think  now.  Captain  Cuttle,”  returned 
Carker,  gathering  up  his  skirts  and  settling  himself  in 
his  position.  “ You  are  a practical  man  ; what  do  you 
think  ? ” 

The  acuteness  and  significance  of  the  captain’s  eye,  as 
he  cocked  it  in  reply,  no  words  short  of  those  unutter- 
able Chinese  words  before  referred  to  could  describe. 

“Come  !”  said  the  captain,  unspeakably  encouraged 
“What  do  you  say  ? Am  I right  or  wrong  ?” 

So  much  had  the  captain  expressed  in  his  eye,  em- 
boldened and  incited  by  Mr.  Carker’s  smiling  urbanity, 
that  he  felt  himself  in  as  fair  a condition  to  put  the 
question,  as  if  he  had  expressed  his  sentiments  with  the 
utmost  elaboration. 

“ Right,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  “ I have  no  doubt.” 

“Out’ard  bound  with  fair  weather,  then,  I say,”  cried 
Captain  Cuttle. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent. 

“ Wind  right  astarn,  and  plenty  of  it,”  pursued  ths 
captain. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent  again. 

“Ay,  ay  !”  said  Captain  Cuttle,  greatly  relieved  and 
pleased.  “I  know ’d  how  she  headed,  well  enough;! 
told  Wal’r  so.  Thank’ee.  thank’ee.” 


556 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Gay  has  brilliant  prospects,”  observed  Mr.  Carkei\ 
stretching  his  mouth  wider  yet ; “ all  the  world  before 
him.” 

“ All  the  world  and  his  wife  too,  as  the  saying  is,”  re- 
turned the  delighted  captain. 

At  the  word  “ wife”  (which  he  had  uttered  without 
design),  the  captain  stopped,  cocked  his  eye  again,  and 
putting  the  glazed  hat  on  the  top  of  the  knobby  stick, 
gave  it  a twirl,  and  looked  sideways  at  his  always  smil 
ing  friend. 

“ Fd  bet  a gill  of  old  Jamaica,”  said  the  captain,  eye- 
ing him  attentively,  “ that  I know  what  you're  smiling 
at!” 

Mr.  Carker  took  his  cue,  and  smiled  the  more. 

“ It  goes  no  farther  ?”  said  the  captain,  making  a poke 
at  the  door  with  the  knobby  stick  to  assure  him  that  it 
was  shut. 

“ Not  an  inch,”  said  Mr.  Carker. 

f‘  You're  a thinking  of  a capital  F perhaps  ? ” said  tho 
captain. 

Mr.  Carker  didn’t  deny  it. 

“ Anything  about  a L,”  said  the  captain,  or  a O? 90 

Mr.  Carker  still  smiled. 

“Am  I right  again?”  inquired  the  captain  in  a whig', 
per,  with  the  scarlet  circle  on  his  forehead,  swelling  in 
his  triumphant  joy. 

Mr.  Carker,  in  reply,  still  smiling,  and  now  nodding  as- 
sent, Captain  Cuttle  rose  and  squeezed  him  by  the  hand, 
assuring  him  warmly,  that  they  were  on  the  same  tack, 
and  that  as  for  him  (Cuttle)  he  had  laid  his  course  that 
way,  all  along,  “ He  know'd  her  first,”  said  the  captain, 
with  all  the  secrecy  and  gravity  that  the  subject  de- 
manded, “ in  an  uncommon  manner  — you  remember  his 
finding  her  in  the  street,  when  she  was  almost  a babby 
— he  has  liked  her  ever  since,  and  she  him,  as  much  as 
two  such  youngsters  can.  We’ve  always  said,  Sol  Gills 
and  me,  that  they  was  cut  out  for  each  other.” 

A cat,  or  a monkey,  or  a hyena,  or  a death’s-head, 
could  not  have  shown  the  captain  more  teeth  at  one  time, 
than  Mr.  Carker  showed  him  at  this  period  of  their  inter- 
view. 

“ There’s  a general  in-draught  that  way,”  observed 
the  happy  captain.  “ Wind  and  water  sets  in  that 
direction,  you  see.  Look  at  his  being  present  t'other 
day  ! ” 

“ Most  favourable  to  his  hopes,”  said  Mr.  Carker. 

Look  at  his  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of  that 
day  ! ” pursued  the  captain.  “ Why  what  can  cut  him 
adrift  now?  ” 

Nothing,  ” replied  Mr.  Carkei*. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


55? 

“You’re  right  again,”  returned  the  captain,  givinghis 
hand  another  squeeze.  “ Nothing  it  is.  So  ! steady 
There’s  a son  gone  ; pretty  little  creatur.  Ain’t  there?  ’ 

“ Yes,  there's  a son  gone,”  said  the  acquiescent  Carter 

“ Pass  the  word  and  there’s  another  ready  for  you,’ 
quoth  the  captain.  “ Nevy  of  a scientific  uncle  ! Nevy 
of  Sol  Gills  ! Wal’r  ! Wal’r  as  is  already  in  your  busi- 
ness ! And  ” — said  the  captain,  rising  gradually  to  a 
quotation  he  was  preparing  for  a final  burst,  “ who — 
comes  from  Sol  Gill’s  daily,  to  your  business,  and  your 
buzzums.  ” 

The  captain’s  complacency  as  he  gently  jogged  Mr. 
Carter  with  his  elbow,  on  concluding  each  of  the  fore- 
going short  sentences,  could  be  surpassed  by  nothing 
but  the  exultation  with  which  he  fell  bact  and  eyed  him 
when  he  had  finished  this  brilliant  display  of  eloquence 
and  sagacity  ; his  great  blue  waistcoat  heaving  with  the 
throes  of  such  a masterpiece,  and  his  nose  in  a state  of 
violent  inflammation  from  the  same  cause. 

“ Am  I right  ?”  said  the  captain. 

“ Captain  Cuttle,”  said  Mr0  Carker,  bending  down  at 
the  knees,  for  a moment,  in  an  odd  manner,  as  if  he 
were  falling  together  to  hug  the  whole  of  himself  at 
once,  “ your  views  in  reference  to  Walter  Gay  are 
thoroughly  and  accurately  right.  I understand  that  we 
Speak  together  in  confidence.” 

“ Honour  ! ” interposed  the  captain.  “ Not  a word.” 

“ To  him  or  any  one  ? ” pursued  the  manager. 

Captain  Cuttle  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

“ But  merely  for  your  own  satisfaction  and  guidance 
—and  guidance,  of  course,”  repeated  Mr.  Carker,  “ with 
a view  to  your  future  proceedings.” 

“ Thank’eo  kindly,  I am  sure,”  said  the  captain,  listen- 
ing with  great  attention. 

“ I have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that’s  the  fact.  You 
have  hit  the  probabilities  exactly.” 

“ And  with  regard  to  your  head  governor,”  said  the 
captain,  “why  an  interview  had  better  come  about 
nat’ral  between  us.  There’s  time  enough.” 

Mr.  Carkei , with  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  repeated, 
“ Time  enough.”  Not  articulating  the  words,  but  bow- 
ing his  head  affably,  and  forming  them  with  his  tongue 
and  lips. 

‘ f And  as  I know  now — it’s  what  I always  said — that 
Wal’r’s  in  a way  to  make  his  fortune,”  said  the  captain. 

“ To  make  his  fortune,”  Mr.  Carker  repeated,  in  the 
same  dumb  manner. 

“And  as  Wal’r’s  going  on  this  little  voyage  is,  as  I 
may  say,  in  his  day’s  work,  and  a part  of  his  general  ex- 
pectations here,”  said  the  captain. 

“ Of  his  general  expectations  here,”  assented  Mr.  Car- 
ker, dumbly  as  before . 


558 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS}. 


“ Why,  so  long*  as  I know  that,”  pursued  the  captain, 
J"tf  there’s  no  hurry,  and  my  mind’s  at  ease.” 

Mr.  Carker  still  blandly  assenting  in  the  same  voiceless 
manner,  Captain  Cuttle  was  strongly  confirmed  in  his 
opinion  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men  he  had 
©ver  met,  and  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  might  improve  him- 
self on  such  a model.  With  great  heartiness,  therefore, 
the  captain  once  again  extended  his  enormous  hand  (not 
Unlike  an  old  block  in  colour),  and  gave  him  a grip  that 
left  upon  his  smoother  flesh  a proof  impression  of  the 
Chinks  and  crevices  with  which  the  captain’s  palm  was 
lib  orally  tattoo’d. 

“Farewell!”  said  the  captain.  “I  ain’t  a man  of 
many  words,  but  I take  it  very  kind  of  you  to  be  so 
friendly,  and  above-board.  You’ll  excuse  me  if  I’ve  been 
at  all  intruding,  will  you  ?”  said  the  captain. 

“Not  at  all,”  returned  the  other. 

“ Thank’ee.  My  berth  ain’t  very  roomy,”  said  the 
captain,  turning  back  again,  “ but  it’s  tolerably  snug  ; 
and  if  you  was  to  find  yourself  near  Brig-place,  number 
&ine,  at  any  time — will  you  make  a note  of  it? — and 
would  come  up-stairs,  without  minding  what  was  said  by 
the  person  at  the  door,  I should  be  proud  to  see  you.” 

With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the  captain  said  “ Good 
day  ! ” and  walked  out  and  shut  the  door  ; leaving  Mr. 
Carker  still  reclining  against  the  chimney-piece.  In 
whose  sly  look  and  watchful  manner  ; in  whose  false 
mouth,  stretched  but  not  laughing  ; in  whose  spotless 
cravat  and  very  whiskers  ; even  in  whose  silent  passing 
of  his  soft  hand  over  his  white  linen  and  his  smooth 
face  ; there  was  something  desperately  cat-like. 

The  unconscious  captain  walked  out  in  a state  of  self- 
glorification  that  imparted  quite  a new  cut  to  the  broad 
blue  suit.  “ Stand  by,  Ned  !”  said  the  captain  to  him- 
self. “You’ve  done  a little  business  for  the  youngsters 
to-day,  my  lad  !” 

In  his  exultation,  and  his  familiarity,  present  and 
prospective,  with  the  House,  the  captain,  when  he 
reached  the  outer  office,  could  not  refrain  from  rallying 
Mr.  Perch  a little,  and  asking  him  whether  he  thought 
everybody  was  still  engaged.  But  not  to  be  bitter  on  a 
man. who  had  done  his  duty,  the  captain  whispered  in 
his  ear,  that  if  he  felt  disposed  for  a glass  of  rum-and- 
water,  and  would  follow,  he  would  be  happy  to  bestow 
the  same  upon  him. 

Before  leaving  the  premises,  the  captain,  somewhat  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  clerks,  looked  round  from  a cen- 
tral point  of  view,  and  took  a general  survey  of  the 
office  as  part  and  parcel  of  a project  in  which  his  young 
friend  was  nearly  interested.  The  strong-room  excited 
his  especial  admiration  ; but,  that  he  might  not  appear  too 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


559 


particular,  lie  limited  liimseif  to  an  approving  glance, 
and,  with  a graceful  recognition  of  the  clerks  as  a body, 
that  was  full  of  politeness  and  patronage,  passed  out  into 
the  court.  Being  promptly  joined  by  Mr.  Perch,  he 
conveyed  that  gentleman  to  the  tavern,  and  fulfilled 
his  pledge — hastily,  for  Perch’s  time  was  precious. 

“ Fll  give  you  for  a toast/’  said  the  captain,  “ Wal’r  ! 99 

“ Who?”  submitted  Mr.  Perch. 

“ Wal’r  !”  repeated  the  captain,  in  a voice  of  thunder. 

Mr.  Perch,  who  seemed  to  remember  having  heard  in 
infancy  that  there  was  once  a poet  of  that  name,  made 
no  objection  ; but  he  was  much  astonished  at  the  cap- 
tain’s coming  into  the  city  to  propose  a poet ; indeed  if  he 
had  proposed  to  put  a poet’s  statue  up— say  Shake- 
speare’s for  example — in  a civic  thoroughfare,  he  could 
hardly  have  done  a greater  outrage  to  Mr.  Perch’s  experi- 
ence. On  the  whole,  he  was  such  a mysterious  and  in- 
comprehensible character,  that  Mr.  Perch  decided  not  to 
mention  him  to  Mrs.  Perch  at  all,  in  ease  of  giving  rise 
to  any  disagreeable  consequences. 

Mysterious  and  incomprehensible  the  captain,  with  that 
lively  sense  upon  him  of  having  done  a little  business 
for  the  youngsters,  remained  all  day,  even  to  his  most 
intimate  friends  ; and  but  that  W alter  attributed  his 
winks  and  grins,  and  other  such  pantomimic  reliefs  of 
himself,  to  his  satisfaction  in  the  success  of  their  inno- 
cent deception  upon  old  Sol  Gills,  he  would  assuredly 
have  betrayed  himself  before  night.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, he  kept  Ms  own  secret ; and  went  home  late  from 
the  instrument-maker’s  house,  wearing  the  glazed  hat  so 
much  on  one  side,  and  carrying  such  a beaming  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  (who  might  have 
been  brought  up  at  Doctor  Blimber’s,  she  was  such  a 
Roman  matron)  fortified  herself,  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
him,  behind  the  open  street  door,  and  refused  to  come 
out  to  the  contemplation  of  her  blessed  infants,  until  he 
was  securely  lodged  in  his  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Father  and  Daughter. 

There  is  a hush  through  Mr.  Dombey’s  house.  Ser- 
vants gliding  up  and  down  stairs  rustle  but  make  no 
sound  of  footsteps.  They  talk  together  constantly,  and 
sit  long  at  meals,  making*  much  of  their  meat  and  drink, 
and  enjoying  ^emseives  after  a grim  unholy  fashion. 
Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  relates 
melancholy  anecdotes  ; and  tells  them  how  she  always 


560 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


said  at  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  that  it  would  be  so,  and  takes 
more  table-ale  than  usual,  and  is  very  sorry  but  sociable. 
Cook's  state  of  mind  is  similar.  She  promises  a little 
fry  for  supper,  and  struggles  about  equally  against  her 
feelings  and  the  onions.  Towlinson  begins  to  think 
there's  a fate  in  it,  and  wants  to  w if  anybody  can  tell 
him  of  any  good  that  ever  came  of  living  in  a corner 
house.  It  seems  to  all  of  them  as  having  happened  a 
long  time  ago  ; though  yet  the  child  lies,  calm  and  beauti- 
ful, upon  his  little  bed. 

After  dark  there  come  some  visitors — noiseless  visitors, 
with  shoes  of  felt — who  have  been  there  before  ; and 
with  them  comes  that  bed  of  rest  which  is  so  strange  a 
one  for  infant  sleepers.  All  this  time,  the  bereaved 
father  has  not  been  seen  even  by  his  attendant ; for  he 
sits  in  a corner  of  his  own  dark  room  when  any  one  is 
there,  and  never  seems  to  move  at  other  times,  except  to 
pace  it  to  and  fro.  But  in  the  morning  it  is  whispered 
among  the  household  that  he  was  heard  to  go  upstairs  in 
the  dead  night,  and  that  he  stayed  there — in  the  room — 
until  the  sun  was  shining. 

At  the  offices  in  the  city,  the  ground-glass  windows 
are  made  more  dim  by  shutters  ; and  while  the  lighted 
lamps  upon  the  desks  are  half  extinguished  by  the  day 
that  wanders  in,  the  day  is  half  extinguished  by  the 
lamps,  and  an  unusual  gloom  prevails.  There  is  not 
nuch  business  done.  The  clerks  are  indisposed  to  work; 
and  they  make  assignations  to  eat  chops  in  the  afternoon, 
and  go  up  the  river.  Perch,  the  messenger,  stays  long 
upon  his  errands ; and  finds  himself  in  bars  of  public 
houses,  invited  thither  by  friends,  and  holding  forth  on 
the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs.  He  goes  home  to 
Ball's  Pond  earlier  in  the  evening  than  usual,  and  treats 
Mrs.  Perch  to  a veal  cutlet  and  Scotch  ale.  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager  treats  no  one ; neither  is  he  treated  ; but 
alone  in  his  own  room  he  shows  his  teeth  all  day  ; and 
it  would  seem  that  there  is  something  gone  from  Mr. 
Carker's  path— some  obstacle  removed — which  clears  his 
way  before  him. 

Now  the  rosy  children  living  opposite  to  Mr.  Dombey’s 
house,  peep  from  their  nursery  windows  down  into  the 
street ; for  there  are  four  black  horses  at  his  door,  with 
feathers  on  their  heads  ; and  feathers  tremble  on  the 
carriage  that  they  draw  ; and  these,  and  an  array  of  men 
with  scarves  and  staves,  attract  a crowd.  The  juggler 
who  was  going  to  whirl  the  basin,  puts  his  loose  coat  on 
again  over  his  fine  dress  ; and  his  trudging  wife,  one- 
sided with  her  heavy  baby  in  her  arms,  loiters  to  see  the 
company  come  out.  But  closer  to  her  dingy  breast  she 
presses  her  baby,  when  the  burden  that  is  so  easily 
carried  is  borne  forth  ; and  the  youngest  of  the  rosy 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


581 


children  at  the  high  window  opposite,  needs  no  restrain- 
ing hand  to  check  her  in  her  glee,  when,  pointing  with 
her  dimpled  finger,  she  looks  into  her  nurse’s  face,  and 
asks  “ What’s  that  ! ” 

And  now,  among  the  knot  of  servants  dressed  in  mourn- 
ing, and  the  weeping  women,  Mr.  Bombey  passes  through 
the  hall  to  the  other  carriage  that  is  waiting  to  receive 
him.  He  is  not  ‘ ‘ brought  down,  ” these  observers  think,  by 
sorrow  and  distress  of  mind.  His  walk  is  as  erect,  his 
bearing  is  as  stiff  as  it  ever  has  been.  He  hides  his  face 
behind  no  handkerchief,  and  looks  before  him.  But 
that  his  face  is  something  sunk,  and  rigid,  and  is  pale, 
it  bears  the  same  expression  as  of  old.  He  takes  his 
place  within  the  carriage,  and  three  other  gentlemen 
follow.  Then  the  grand  funeral  moves  slowly  down 
the  street.  The  feathers  are  yet  nodding  in  the  distance, 
when  the  juggler  has  the  basin  spinning  on  a cane,  and 
has  the  same  crowd  to  admire  it.  But  the  juggler’s 
wife  is  less  alert  than  usual  with  the  money-box,  for  a 
child’s  burial  has  set  her  thinking  that  perhaps  the 
baby  underneath  her  shabby  shawl  may  not  grow  up  to 
be  a man,  and  wear  a sky-blue  fillet  round  his  head,  and 
salmon-coloured  worsted  drawers,  and  tumble  in  the  mud. 

The  feathers  wind  their  gloomy  way  along  the  streets, 
and  come  within  the  sound  of  a church  bell.  In  this 
same  church,  the  pretty  boy  received  all  that  will  soon 
be  left  of  him  on  earth— a name.  All  of  him  that  is 
dead,  they  lay  there,  near  the  perishable  substance  of 
his  mother,  it  is  well.  Their  ashes  lie  where  Florence 
in  her  walks— oh  lonely,  lonely  walks  ! — may  pass  them 
any  day. 

The  service  over,  and  the  clergyman  withdrawn,  Mr 
Bombey  looks  round,  demanding  in  a low  voice,  whether 
the  person  who  has  been  requested  to  attend  to  receive 
instructions  for  the  tablet,  is  there  ? 

Some  one  comes  forward,  and  says  “Yes.” 

Mr.  Bombey  intimates  where  he  would  have  it  placed  , 
and  shows  him,  with  his  hand  upon  the  wall,  the  shape 
and  size  ; and  how  it  is  to  follow  the  memorial  to  the 
mother.  Then,  with  his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the  in- 
scription, and  gives  it  to  him  ; adding,  “ I wish  to  have 
it  done  at  once.” 

“ It  shall  be  done  immediately,  sir.” 

“ There  is  really  nothing  to  inscribe  but  name  and 
age,  you  see.” 

The  man  bows,  glancing  at  the  paper,  but  appears  to 
hesitate.  Mr,  Bombey,  not  observing  his  hesitation, 
turns  away,  and  leads  towards  the  porch. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir  a touch  falls  gently  on  his 
mourning  cloak  ; “ but  as  you  wish  it  done  immediately, 
and  it  may  be  put  in  hand  when  I get  back—” 


562  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

*'  Well  ? ” 

“ Will  you  be  so  good  as  read  it  oyer  again  1 I 
think  there's  a mistake.” 

“ Where 

The  statuary  gives  him  back  the  paper,  and  points  out, 
with  his  pocket  rule,  the  words,  “beloved  and  only 
child.” 

“ It  should  be  “ son,'  I think,  sir  ? ” 

“You  are  right  Of  course.  Make  the  correction.” 

The  father,  with  a hastier  step,  pursues  his  way  to  the 
coach.  When  the  other  three,  who  follow  closely,  take 
their  seats,  his  face  is  hidden  for  the  first  time — shaded 
by  his  cloak.  Nor  do  they  see  it  any  more  that  day.  He* 
alights  first,  and  passes  immediately  into  his  own  room. 
The  other  mourners  (who  are  only  Mr.  Chick,  and  two 
of  the  medical  attendants)  proceed  up-stairs  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  be  received  by  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox. 
And  what  the  face  is,  in  the  sliut-up  chamber  under- 
neath : or  what  the  thoughts  are  : what  the  heart  is, 
what  the  contest  or  the  suffering  : no  one  knows. 

The  chief  thing  that  they  know,  below-stairs,  in  the 
kitchen,  is  that  “it  seems  like  Sunday.”  They  can 
hardly  persuade  themselves  but  that  there  is  something 
unbecoming,  if  not  wicked,  in  the  conduct  of  the  people 
out  of  doors,  who  pursue  their  ordinary  occupations,  and 
wear  their  every-day  attire.  It  is  quite  a novelty  to  have 
the  blinds  up,  and  the  shutters  open  : and  the}3'  make 
themselves  dismally  comfortable  over  bottles  of  wine, 
which  are  freely  broached  as  on  a festival.  They  are 
much  inclined  to  moralise.  Mr.  Towlinson  proposes  with 
a sigh,  <c  Amendment  to  us  ajl  !”  for  which,  as  cook 
says  with  another  sigh,  “ There's  room  enough,  God 
knows.''  In  the  evening,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  take 
to  needlework  again.  In  the  evening  also,  Mr.  Towlin 
son  goes  out  to  take  the  air,  accompanied  by  the  house* 
maid,  who  has  not  yet  tried  her  mourning  bonnet.  They 
are  very  tender  to  each  other  at  dusky  street- corners,  aud 
Towlinson  has  visions  of  leading  an  altered  and  blame- 
less existence  as  a serious  green-grocer  in  Oxford  Market. 

There  is  sounder  sleep  and  deeper  rest  in  Mr.  Dom bey’s 
house  to-night,  than  there  has  been  for  many  nights. 
The  morning  sun  awakens  the  old  household,  settled 
down  once  more  in  their  old  ways.  The  rosy  children 
opposite,  run  past  with  hoops.  There  is  a splendid 
wedding  in  the  church.  The  juggler’s  wife  is  active 
with  the  money-box  in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  The 
mason  sings  and  whistles  as  he  chips  out  p-a-u-l  in  the 
marble  slab  before  him. 

And  can  it  be  that  in  a world  so  full  and  busy,  the  loss 
of  one  weak  creature  makes  a void  in  any  heart,  so  wide 
and  deep  that  nothing  but  the  width  and  depth  of  vast 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


563 


eternity  can  fill  it  up  ! Florence,  in  her  innocent  afflict 
tion,  might  have  answered,  “Oh  my  brother,  oh  my 
dearly  loved  and  loving  brother  ! Only  friend  and  com- 
panion of  my  slighted  childhood  ! Could  any  less  idea 
shed  the  light  already  dawning  on  your  early  grave,  ov 
give  birth  to  the  softened  sorrow  that  is  springing  into 
life  beneath  this  rain  of  tears  ! ” 

“ My  dear  child,”  said  Mis.  Chick,  who  held  it  as  a 
duty  incumbent  on  her  to  improve  the  occasion,  “ when 
you  are  as  old  as  I am — ” 

“ Which  will  be  the  prime  of  life,”  observed  Miss  Tox. 

“You  will  then,”  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  gently  squeez- 
ing Miss  Tox’s  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  her  friendly 
remark,  “ you  will  then  know  that  all  grief  is  unavail- 
ing, and  that  it  is  our  duty  to  submit.” 

“ I will  try,  dear  aunt.  I do  try,”  answered  Florence, 
sobbing. 

“ I am  glad  to  hear  it,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  “ because,  my 
love,  as  our  dear  Miss  Tox — of  whose  sound  sense  and 
excellent  judgment,  there  cannot  possibly  be  two  opin- 
ions—” 

“ My  dear  Louisa,  I shall  really  be  proud,  soon,”  said 
Miss  Tox. 

— “ will  tell  you,  and  confirm  by  her  experience,”  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Chick,  ‘ ‘ we  are  called  upon  on  all  occasions  to 
make  an  effort.  It  is  required  of  us.  If  any — my  dear,” 
turning  to  Miss  Tox,  “ I want  a word.  Mis— Mis — ” 

“ Demeanour  ? ” suggested  Miss  Tox. 

“No,  no,  no,”  said  Mrs.  Chick.  “How  can  you? 
Goodness  me,  it’s  on  the  end  of  my  tongue.  Mis — ” 

“ Placed  affection  ? ” suggested  Miss  Tox,  timidly. 

“ Good  gracious,  Lucretia  ! ” returned  Mrs.  Chick. 
“ How  very  monstrous  ! Misanthrope  is  the  word  I want. 
The  idea  ! Misplaced  affection  ! I say,  if  any  misan- 
thrope were  to  put,  in  my  presence,  the  question,  ‘ Whv* 
were  we  born  ? 9 1 should  reply,  ‘ to  make  an  effort. s” 

“ Yery  good  indeed,”  saicf  Miss  Tox,  much  impressed 
by  the  originality  of  the  sentiment.  “ Very  good.’*' 

“ Unhappily,”  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  “we  have  a warn- 
ing under  our  own  eyes.  We  have  but  too  much  reason 
to  suppose,  my  dear  child,  that  if  an  effort  had  been 
made  in  time,  in  \his  family,  a train  of  the  most  trying 
and  distressing  circumstances  might  have  been  avoided. 
Nothing  shall  ever  persuade  me,”  observed  the  good 
matron,  with  a resolute  air,  “ but  that  if  that  effort  had 
been  made  by  poor  de^r  Fanny,  the  poor  dear  darling 
child  would  at  least  have  had  a stronger  constitution.” 

Mrs.  Chick  abandoned  herself  to  her  feelings  for  half 
a moment  ; hut,  as  a practical  illustration  of  her  doo 
trine,  brought  herself  up  short,,  m the  middle  of  a sob, 
and  went  on  again. 


564 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


" Therefore,  Florence,  pray  let  us  see  that  yon  have 
some  strength  of  mind,  and  do  not  selfishly  aggravate 
the  distress  in  which  your  poor  papa  is  plunged/' 

“Dear  aunt  ! ” said  Florence,  kne&ling  quickly  down 
before  her,  that  she  might  the  better  and  more  earnestly 
look  into  her  face,  “ Tell  me  more  about  papa.  Pray 
tell  me  about  him  ! Is  he  quite  heart-broken  ? ” 

Miss  Tox  was  of  a tender  nature,  and  there  was  some- 
thing In  this  appeal  that  moved  her  very  much.  Whether 
she  saw  in  it  a succession,  on  the  part  of  the  neglected 
child,  to  the  affectionate  concern  so  often  expressed  by 
her  dead  brother — or  a love  that  sought  to  twine  itself 
about  the  heart  that  had  loved  him,  and  that  could  not 
bear  to  be  shut  out  from  sympathy  with  such  a sorrow, 
in  such  sad  community  of  love  and  grief — or  whether 
she  only  recognised  the  earnest  and  devoted  spirit  which, 
although  discarded  and  repulsed,  was  wrung  with  ten- 
derness long  unreturned,  and  in  the  waste  and  solitude 
of  this  bereavement  cried  to  him  to  seek  a comfort  in  it, 
and  to  give  some,  by  some  small  response — whatever 
may  have  been  her  understanding  of  it,  it  moved  Miss 
Tox.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  majesty  of  Mrs. 
Chick,  and,  patting  Florence  hastily  on  the  cheek,  turned 
aside  and  suffered  the  tears  to  gush  from  her  eyes,  with- 
out waiting  for  a lead  from  that  wise  matron. 

Mrs.  Chick  herself  lost,  for  a moment,  the  presence  of 
mind  on  which  she  so  much  prided  herself  ; and  re- 
mained mute,  looking  on  the  beautiful  young  face  that 
had  so  long,  so  steadily,  and  patiently,  been  turned  to- 
wards the  little  bed.  But  recovering  her  voice — which 
was  synonymous  with  her  presence  of  mind,  indeed  they 
were  one  and  the  same  thing — she  replied  with  dignity  : 

“ Florence,  my  dear  child,  your  poor  papa  is  peculiar 
at  times  ; and  to  question  me  about  him,  is  to  question 
me  upon  a subject  which  I really  do  not  pretend  to  un- 
derstand. I believe  I have  as  much  influence  with  your 
papa  as  anybody  has.  Still,  all  I can  say  is,  that  he  has 
said  very  little  to  me  ; and  that  I have  only  seen  him 
once  or  twice  for  a minute  at  a time,  and  indeed  have 
hardly  seen  him  then,  for  his  room  has  been  dark.  I 
have  said  to  your  papa  ‘ Paul ! ' — that  is  the  exact  ex- 
pression I used—'  Paul  ! why  do  you  not  take  something 
stimulating?'  Your  papa's  reply  has  always  been, 

‘ Louisa,  have  the  goodness  to  leave  me.  I want  noth- 
ing. I am  better  by  myself.'  If  I was  to  be  put  upon 
my  oath  to-morrow,  Lucretia,  before  a magistrate,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  “ I have  no  doubt  I could  venture  to  swear 
to  those  identical  words." 

Miss  Tox  expressed  her  admiration  by  saying,  “ My 
Louisa  is  ever  methodical  ! " 

“ In  short,  Florence,"  resumed  her  aunt,  “ literally 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


565 


nothing  has  passed  between  your  poor  papa  and  myself, 
until  to-day  ; when  I mentioned  to  your  papa  that  Sir 
Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles  had  written  exceedingly  kind 
notes — our  sweet  boy  ! Lady  Skettles  loved  him  like  a 
—where's  my  pocket-handkerchief  ! 99 

Miss  Tox  produced  one. 

44  Exceedingly  kind  notes,  proposing  that  you  should 
visit  them  for  a change  of  scene.  Mentioning  to  your 
papa  that  I thought  Miss  Tox  and  myself  might  now  go 
home  (in  which  he  quite  agreed),  I inquired  if  he  had 
any  objection  to  your  accepting  this  invitation.  He  said, 

4 No,  Louisa,  not  the  least  !'  ” 

Florence  raised  her  tearful  eyes. 

44  At  the  same  time,  if  you  would  prefer  staying  here, 
Florence,  to  paying  this  visit  at  present,  or  to  going 
home  with  me*^w 

44 1 should  much  prefer  it,  aunt/'  was  the  faint  re- 
joinder. 

44  Why  then,  child/'  said  Mrs.  Chick,  44  you  can.  It's 
a strange  choice,  I must  say.  But  you  always  were 
strange.  Anybody  else  at  your  time  of  life,  and  after 
what  has  passed — my  dear  Miss  Tox,  I have  lost  my 
pocket-handkerchief  again — would  be  glad  to  leave  here, 
one  would  suppose." 

44 1 should  not  like  to  feel/'  said  Florence,  44  as  if  the 
house  was  avoided.  I should  not  like  to  think  that  the 
— his — the  rooms  up-stairs  were  quite  empty  and  dreary, 
aunt.  I would  rather  stay  here,  for  the  present.  Oh 
my  brother  ! oh  my  brother  ! 99 

It  was  a natural  emotion  not  to  be  suppressed  ; and  it 
would  make  way  even  between  the  fingers  of  the  hands 
with  which  she  covered  up  her  face.  The  overcharged 
and  heavy-laden  breast  must  sometimes  have  that  vent, 
or  the  poor  wounded  solitary  heart  within  it  would  have 
fluttered  like  a bird  with  broken  wings,  and  sunk  down 
in  the  dust. 

44 Well,  child!"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a pause. 
44 / wouldn't  on  any  account  say  anything  unkind  to  you, 
and  that  I'm  sure  you  know.  You  will  remain  here, 
then,  and  do  exactly  as  you  like.  No  one  will  interfere 
with  you,  Florence,  or  wish  to  interfere  with  you,  I'm 
sure." 

Florence  shook  her  head  in  sad  assent. 

44 1 had  no  sooner  begun  to  advise  your  poor  papa  that 
he  really  ought  to  seek  some  distraction  and  restoration 
in  a temporary  change,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  44  than  he  told 
me  he  had  already  formed  the  intention  of  going  into 
the  country  for  a short  time.  I'm  sure  I hope  he’ll  go 
very  soon.  He  can't  go  too  soon.  But  I suppose  there 
are  some  arrangements  connected  with  his  private  papers 
and  so  forth,  consequent  on  the  affliction  that  has  tried 


560 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


us  all  so  much— I can’t  think  what’s  become  of  mine  • 
Lueretia,  lend  me  yours,  my  dear — that  may  occupy  him 
for  one  or  two  evenings  in  his  own  room.  Your  papa’s 
a Dombey,  child,  if  ever  there  was  one,”  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  drying  both  her  eyes  at  once  with  great  care  on 
opposite  corners  of  Miss  Tox’s  handkerchief.  “ He’ll 
make  an  effort.  There’s  no  fear  of  him.” 

“ Is  there  nothing,  aunt,”  asked  Florence,  trembling, 
‘ I might  do  to—” 

“ Lord,  my  dear  child,”  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  hastily, 
**  what  are  you  talking  about?  If  your  papa  said  to  me 
— I have  given  you  his  exact  words,  ‘Louisa,  I want 
nothing ; I am  better  by  myself  what  do  you  think 
he’d  say  to  you?  You  mustn’t  show  yourself  to  him, 
child.  Don’t  dream  of  such  a thing.” 

“ Aunt,”  said  Florence,  “ I will  go  and  lie  down  in  my 
bed.” 

Mrs.  Chick  approved  of  this  resolution,  and  dismissed 
her  with  a kiss.  But  Miss  Tox,  on  a faint  pretence  of 
looking  for  the  mislaid  handkerchief,  went  up  stairs  after 
her ; and  tried  in  a few  stolen  minutes  to  comfort  her,  in 
spite  of  great  discouragement  from  Susan  Nipper.  For 
Miss  Nipper,  in  her  burning  zeal,  disparaged  Miss  Tox 
as  a crocodile  ; yet  her  sympathy  seemed  genuine,  and 
had  at  least  the  vantage-ground  of  disinterestedness — 
there  was  little  favour  to  be  won  by  it. 

And  was  there  no  one  nearer  and  dearer  than  Susan, 
to  uphold  the  striving  heart  in  its  anguish?  Was  there 
no  other  neck  to  clasp  ; no  other  face  to  turn  to?  no  one 
else  to  say  a soothing  word  to  such  deep  sorrow  ? Waa 
Florence  so  alone  in  the  bleak  world  that  nothing  else 
remained  to  her?  Nothing.  Stricken  motherless  and 
brotherless  at  once — for  in  the  loss  of  little  Paul,  that 
first  and  greatest  loss  fell  heavily  upon  her — this  was 
the  only  help  she  had.  Oh,  who  can  tell  how  much  she 
needed  help  at  first. 

At  first,  when  the  house  subsided  into  its  accustomed 
course,  and  they  had  all  gone  away,  except  the  servants, 
and  her  father  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  Florence  could 
do  nothing  but  weep,  and  wander  up  and  down,  and 
sometimes,  in  a sudden  pang  of  desolate  remembrance, 
fly  to  her  own  chamber,  wring  her  hands,  lay  her  face 
down  on  her  bed.  and  know  no  consolation  : nothing  but 
the  bitterness  and  cruelty  of  grief.  This  commonly  en- 
sued upon  the  recognition  of  some  spot  or  object  very 
tenderly  associated  with  him  ; and  it  made  the  iniserabl 
house,  at  first,  a place  of  asronv- 

But  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  pure  love  to  burn  so 
fiercely  and  unkindly  long.  Tlie  flame  that  in  its  grosser 
composition  has  the  taint  of  earth,  may  prey  upon  the 
breast  that  gives  it  shelter  ; hut  the  sacred  Are  from 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


567 


heaven  is  as  gentle  in  tlie  heart  as  when  it  rested  on  the 
heads  of  the  assembled  twelve,  and  showed  each  man 
his  brother,  brightened  and  unhurt.  The  image  con- 
jured up,  there  soon  returned  the  placid  face,  the  sof- 
tened voice,  the  loving  “looks,  the  quiet  trustfulness  and 
peace  ; and  Florence,  though  she  wept  still,  wept  more 
tranquilly,  and  courted  the  remembrance. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  golden  water,  dancing 
cm  the  wall,  in  the  old  place  at  the  old  serene  time,  had 
her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  it  as  it  ebbed  away.  It  was 
not  very  long  before  that  room  again  knew  her,  often  ; 
sitting  there  alone,  as  patient  and  as  mild  as  when  she 
had  watched  beside  the  little  bed.  When  any  sharp 
sense  of  its  being  empty  smote  upon  her,  she  could  kneel 
beside  it,  and  pray  God— it  was  the  pouring  out  of  her 
full  heart — to  let  one  angel  love  her  and  remember 
her. 

It  was  not  very  long,  before,  in  the  midst  of  the  dis- 
mal house  so  wide  and  dreary,  her  low  voice  in  the  twi- 
light, slowly,  and  stopping  sometimes,  touched  the  old 
air  to  which  he  had  so  often  listened,  with  his  drooping 
head  upon  her  arm.  And  after  that,  and  when  it  was 
quite  dark,  a little  strain  of  music  trembled  in  the  room  : 
so  softly  played  and  sung,  that  it  was  more  like  the 
mournful  recollection  of  what  she  had  done  at  his  re- 
quest on  that  last  night,  than  the  reality  repeated.  But 
it  was  repeated,  often — very  often,  in  the  shadowy  soli- 
tude : and  broken  murmurs  of  the  strain  still  trembled 
on  the  keys,  when  the  sweet  voice  was  hushed  in  tears. 

Thus  she  gained  heart  to  look  upon  the  work  with 
which  her  fingers  had  been  busy  by  his  side  on  the  sea- 
shore ; and  thus  it  was  not  very  long  before  she  took  to 
it  again — with  something  of  a human  love  for  it,  as  if  it 
had  been  sentient  and  had  known  him  ; and,  sitting  in  a 
window,  near  her  mother’s  picture,  in  the  unused  room 
so  long  deserted,  wore  away  the  thoughtful  hours. 

Why  did  the  dark  eyes  turn  so  often  from  this  work 
to  where  the  rosy  children  lived  ? They  were  not  imme- 
diately suggestive  of  her  loss  ; for  they  were  all  girls : 
four  little  sisters.  But  they  were  motherless  like  her — - 
and  had  a father. 

It  was  easy  to  know  when  he  had  gone  out  and  was 
expected  home,  for  the  elder  child  was  always  dressed 
and  waiting  for  him  at  the  drawing-room  window,  or  in 
the  balcony ; and  when  he  appeared,  her  expectant  face 
lighted  up  with  joy,  while  the  others  at  the  high  win- 
dow, and  always  on  the  watch  too,  clapped  their  hands, 
and  drummed  them  on  the  sill,  and  called  to  him.*  The 
older  child  would  come  down  to  the  hall,  and  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  lead  him  up  the  stairs  ; and  Florence 
would  see  her  afterwards  sitting  by  his  side,  or  on  his 


568 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


knee,  or  hanging  coaxingly  about  his  neck  and  talking* 
to  him  : and  though  they  were  always  gay  together,  he 
would  often  watch  her  face,  as  if  he  thought  her  like  her 
mother  that  was  dead.  Florence  would  sometimes  look 
no  more  at  this,  and  bursting  into* tears  would  hide  be- 
hind the  curtain  as  if  she  were  frightened,  or  would 
hurry  from  the  window.  Yet  she  could  not  help  return- 
ing ; and  her  work  would  soon  fall  unheeded  from  her 
hands  again. 

It  was  the  house  that  had  been  empty  years  ago.  It 
had  remained  so  for  a long  time.  At  last,  and  while 
she  had  been  away  from  home,  this  family  had  taken 
it ; and  it  was  repaired  and  newly  painted  ; and  there 
were  birds  and  flowers  about  it  ; and  it  looked  very  dif- 
ferent from  its  old  self.  But  she  never  thought  of  the 
house.  The  children  and  their  father  were  all  in  all. 

When  he  had  dined,  she  could  see  them,  through  the 
open  windows,  go  down  with  their  governess  or  nurse, 
and  cluster  round  the  table  ; and  in  the  still  summer 
weather,  the  sound  of  their  childish  voices  and  clear 
laughter  would  come  ringing  across  the  street,  into  the 
drooping  air  of  the  room  in  which  she  sat.  Then  they 
would  climb  and  clamber  up-stairs  with  him,  and  romp 
about  him  on  the  sofa,  or  group  themselves  at  his  knee, 
a very  nosegay  of  little  faces,  while  he  seemed  to  tell 
them  some  story,  Or  they  would  come  running  out  into 
the  balcony ; and  then  Florence  would  hide  herself 
quickly,  lest  it  should  check  them  in  their  joy,  to  sc* 
her  in  her  black  dress,  sitting  there  alone. 

The  elder  child  remained  with  her  father  when  the 
rest  had  gone  away,  and  made  his  tea  for  him — happy 
little  housekeeper  she  was  then  ! — and  sat  conversing 
with  him,  sometimes  at  the  window,  sometimes  in  the 
room,  until  the  candles  came.  He  made  her  his  com. 
panion,  though  she  was  some  years  younger  than  Flor- 
ence ; and  she  could  be  as  staid  and  pleasantly  demure 
with  her  little  book  or  work-box,  as  a woman.  When 
they  had  candles,  Florence  from  her  own  dark  room  was 
not  afraid  to  look  again.  But  when  the  time  came  for 
the  child  to  say,  “Good  night,  papa,”  and  go  to  bed, 
Florence  would  sob  and  tremble  as  she  raised  her  face 
to  him,  and  could  look  no  more. 

Though  still  she  would  turn,  again  and  again,  before 
going  to  bed  herself,  from  the  simple  air  that  had  lulled 
him  to  rest  so  often,  long  ago,  and  from  the  other  low 
soft  broken  strain  of  music  back  to  that  house.  But 
that  she  ever  thought  of  it,  or  watched  it,  was  a secret 
which  she  kept  within  her  own  young  breast. 

And  did  that  breast  of  Florence — Florence,  so  ingen 
nous  and  true — so  worthy  of  the  love  that  he  had  borne 
her,  and  had  whispered  in  his  last  faint  words — wrhose 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


569 


guileless  heart  was  mirrored  in  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  breathed  in  every  accent  of  her  gentle  voice — did 
that  young  breast  hold  any  other  secret  ? Yes.  One 
more. 

When  no  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  and  the  lights 
were  all  extinguished,  she  would  softly  leave  her  own 
room,  and  with  noiseless  feet  descend  the  staircase,  and 
approach  her  father’s  door.  Against  it,  scarcely  breath- 
ing, she  would  rest  her  face  and  head,  and  press  her 
lips,  in  the  yearning  of  her  love.  She  crouched  upon  the 
cold  stone  floor  outside  it,  every  night,  to  listen  even  for 
his  breath  ; and  in  h§r  one  absorbing  wish  to  be  allowed 
to  show  hinj  some  affection,  to  be  a consolation  to  him, 
to  win  him  over  to  the  endurance  of  some  tenderness 
from  her,  his  solitary  child,  she  would  have  knelt  down 
at  his  feet,  if  she  had  dared,  in  humble  supplication. 

No  one  knew  it.  No  one  thought  of  it.  The  door  was 
ever  closed,  and  he  shut  up  within.  He  went  out  once 
or  twice,  and  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  he  was 
very  soon  going  on  his  country  journey  ; but  he  lived  in 
those  rooms,  and  lived  alone,  and  never  saw  her,  or  in- 
quired for  her.  Perhaps  he  did  not  even  know  that  she 
was  in  the  house. 

One  day,  about  a week  after  the  funeral,  Plorence  was 
sitting  at  her  work,  when  Susan  appeared,  with  a face 
half  laughing  and  half  crying,  to  announce  a visitor. 

“ A visitor  ! To  me,  Susan  1 ” said  Florence,  looking 
up  in  astonishment. 

“ Well,  it  is  a wonder,  ain’t  it  now  Miss  Floy,”  said 
Susan  ; “but  I wish  you  had  a many  visitors,  I do,  in- 
deed, for  you’d  be  all  the  better  for  it,  and  it’s  my  opin- 
ion that  the  sooner  you  and  me  goes  even  to  them  old 
Skettieses,  miss,'  the  better  for  both,  1 may  not  wish  to 
live  in  crowds.  Miss  Floy,  but  still  I’m  not  an  oyster.” 

To  do  Miss  Nipper  justice,  she  spoke  more  for  her 
young  mistress  than  herself  ; and  her  face  showed  it. 

“ But  the  visitor,  Susan,”  said  Florence. 

Susan,  with  an  hysterical  explosion  that  was  as  much  a 
laugh  as  a sob,  and  as  much  a sob  as  a laugh,  answered, 

“ Mr.  Toots  ! ” 

The  smile  that  appeared  on  Florence’s  face  passed 
from  it  in  a moment,  and  her  eyes,  filled  with  tears. 
But  at  any  rate  it  was  a smile,  and  that  gave  great  satis- 
faction to  Miss  Nipper. 

* “ My  own  feelings  exactly.  Miss  Floy,”  said  Susan, 
putting  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  shaking  her  head. 
“ Immediately  I see  that  Innocent  in  the  hall,  Miss  Floy, 
I burst  out  laughing  first,  and  then  I choked.” 

Susan  Nipper  involuntarily  proceeded  to  do  the  like 
again  on  the  spot.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Toots,  who  had 
come  up-stairs  after  her,  all  unconscious  of  the  effect  ho 


570 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


produced,  announced  himself  with  his  knuckles  on  the 
door,  and  walked  in  very  briskly. 

“How  d’ye  do,  Miss  Dombey?”  said  Mr.  Toots.  “ Fm 
very  well  I thank  you  ; how  are  you  ? ” 

Mr.  Toots — than  whom  there  were  few  better  fellows 
in  the  world,  though  there  may  have  been  one  or  two 
brighter  spirits — had  laboriously  invented  this  long  burst 
of  discourse  with  the  view  of  relieving  the  feelings  both 
of  Florence  and  himself.  But  finding  he  had  run  through 
his  property,  as  it  were,  in  an  injudicious  manner,  by 
squandering  the  whole  before  taking  a chair,  or  before 
Florence  had  uttered  a word,  or  before  he  had  well  got 
in  at  the  door,  he  deemed  it  advisable  to  begin  again. 

“ How  d’ye  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?”  said  Mr.  Toots.  “ Fm 
very  well,  I thank  you  ; how  are  you  ? ” 

Florence  gave  him  her  hand  and  said  she  was  very 
well. 

“Fm  very  well  indeed,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  a 
chair.  ‘ 4 Very  well  indeed,  I am.  I don’t  remember,” 
said  Mr.  Toots,  after  reflecting  a little,  “that  I was  ever 
better,  thank  you.” 

“It’s  very  kind  of  you  to  come,”  said  Florence,  taking 
up  her  work.  “ I am  very  glad  to  see  you.” 

Mr.  Toots  responded  with  a chuckle.  Thinking  that 
might  be  too  lively,  he  corrected  it  with  a sigh.  Think- 
ing that  might  be  too  melancholy,  he  corrected  it  with  a 
chuckle.  Not  thoroughly  pleasing  himself  with  either 
mode  of  reply,  he  breathed  hard. 

“You  were  very  kind  to  my  dear  brother,”  said  Flor- 
ence, obeying  her  own  natural  impulse  to  relieve  him  by 
saying  so.  “ He  often  talked  to  me  about  you.” 

“Oh,  it’s  of  no  consequence,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  hastily* 
5fWarm,  ain’t  it  ? ” 

“ It  is  beautiful  weather,”  replied  Florence. 

“ It  agrees  with  me  !”  said  Mr.  Toots.  “ I don’t  think 
I ever  was  so  well  as  I find  myself  at  present,  I’m 
obliged  to  you.” 

After  stating  this  curious  and  unexpected  fact,  Mr. 
Toots  fell  into  a deep  well  of  silence. 

“You  have  left  Doctor  Blimber’s,  I think  ? ” said  Flor- 
ence, trying  to  help  him  out. 

“I  should  hope  so,”  returned  Mr.  Toots.  And  tum- 
bled in  again. 

He  remained  at  the  bottom,  apparently  drowned,  for 
at  least  ten  minutes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period, 
lie  suddenly  floated,  and  said, 

“ Well  ! Good  morning,  Miss  Dombey.” 

if  Are  you  going  ?”  asked  Florence,  rising. 

“ I don’t  know,  though.  No,  not  just  at  present,’9 
said  Mr.  Toots,  sitting  down  again,  most  unexpectedly,, 
“ The  fact  is— I say,  Miss  Dombey  ! ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


571 


“ Don’t  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,”  said  Florence,  with 
a quiet  smile,  “ I should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  talk 
about  my  brother.” 

“Would  you,  though,”  retorted  Mr.  Toots,  with  sym- 
pathy in  every  fibre  of  his  otherwise  expressionless  face. 
“ Poor  Dombey  ! Fm  sure  I never  thought  that  Burgess 
& Co. — fashionable  tailors  (but  very  dear),  that  we  used 
to  talk  about — would  make  this  suit  of  clothes  for  such 
a purpose.”  Mr.  Toots  was  dressed  in  mourning.  “Poor 
Dombey!  I say!  Miss  Dombey  !”  blubbered  Mr. 
Toots. 

“ Yes,”  said  Florence. 

“ There’s  a friend  he  took  to  very  much  at  last.  I 
thought  you’d  like  to  have  him,-  perhaps,  as  a sort  of  keep- 
sake. You  remember  his  remembering  Diogenes  ?” 

“ Oh  yes  ! oh  yes  !”  cried  Florence. 

“ Poor  Dombey  ! So  do  I,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots,  seeing  Florence  in  tears,  had  great  difficul- 
ty in  getting  beyond  this  point,  and  had  nearly  tumbled 
into  the  well  again.  But  a chuckle  saved  him  on  the. 
brink. 

“ I say,”  he  proceeded,  “ Miss  Dombey  ! I could  have 
had  him  stolen  for  ten  shillings,  if  they  hadn’t  given  him 
up  : and  I would  : but  they  were  glad  to  get  rid  of  him, 
I think.  If  you’d  like  to  have  him,  he’s  at  the  door.  I 
brought  him  on  purpose  for  you.  He  ain’t  a lady’s  dog, 
you  know,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ but  you  won’t  mind  that, 
will  you  ?” 

In  fact,  Diogenes  was  at  that  moment,  as  they  pres- 
ently ascertained,  from  looking  down  into  the  street, 
staring  through  the  window  of  a hackney  cabriolet,  into 
which,  for  conveyance  to  that  spot,  he  had  been  en- 
snared, on  a false  pretence  of  rats  among  the  straw. 
Sooth  to  say,  he  was  as  unlike  a lady’s  dog  as  dog  might 
be  ; and  in  his  gruff  anxiety  to  get  out  presented  an  ap- 
pearance sufficiently  unpromising,  as  he  gave  short  yelps 
out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  overbalancing  himself 
by  the  intensity  of  every  one  of  those  efforts,  tumbled 
down  into  the  straw,  and  then  sprung  panting  up  again, 
putting  out  his  tongue,  as  if  he  had  come  express  to  a 
dispensary  to  be  examined  for  his  health. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a dog  as  one 
would  meet  with  on  a-  summer’s  day  ; a blundering,  ill- 
favoured,  clumsy,  bullet-headed  dog,  continually  acting 
on  a wrong  idea  that  there  was  an  enemy  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, whom  it  was  meritorious  to  bark  at ; and 
though  he  was  far  from  good-tempered,  and  certainly 
was  not  clever,  and  had  hair  all  over  his  eyes,  and  a comie 
nose,  and  an  inconsistent  tail,  and  a gruff  voice  ; he  was 
dearer  to  Florence,  in  virtue  of  that  parting  remem' 
brance  of  him,  and  that  request  that  he  might  be  taken 


572 


770RKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


care  of,  than  the  most  valuable  and  beautiful  of  his  kind. 
So  dear,  indeed,  was  this  same  ugly  Diogenes,  and  so 
welcome  to  her,  that  she  took  the  jewelled  hand  of  Mr. 
Toots,  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude.  And  when  Diog- 
enes, released,  came  tearing  up  the  stairs  and  bouncing 
into  the  room  (such  a business  as  there  was  first  to  get 
him  out  of  the  cabriolet  !),  dived  under  all  the  furniture, 
and  wound  a long  i^on  chain,  that  dangled  from  his 
neck,  round  legs  of  chairs  and  tables,  and  then  tugged 
at  it  until  his  eyes  became  unnaturally  visible,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  nearly  starting  out  of  his  head;  and 
when  he  growled  at  Mr.  Toots,  who  affected  familiarity  f 
and  went  pell-mell  at  Towlinson,  morally  convinced  that 
he  was  the  enemy  whom  he  had  barked  at  round  the 
corner  all  his  life  and  had  never  seen  yet ; Florence  was 
as  pleased  with  him  as  if  he  had  been  a miracle  of  dis- 
cretion. 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his 
present,  and  was  so  delighted  to  *see  Florence  bending 
down  over  Diogenes,  smoothing  his  coarse  back  with  her 
little  delicate  hand — Diogenes  graciously  allowing  it 
from  the  first  moment  of  their  acquaintance — that  he  felt 
it  difficult  to  take  leave,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  been 
a much  longer  time  in  making  up  his  mind  to  do  so,  if 
he  had  not  been  assisted  by  Diogenes  himself,  who  sud- 
denly took  it  into  his  head  to  bay  Mr.  Toots,  and  to 
make  short  runs  at  him  with  his  mouth  open.  Not  ex- 
actly seeing  his  way  to  the  end  of  these  demonstrations, 
and  sensible  that  they  placed  the  pantaloons  constructed 
by  the  art  of  Burgess  & Co.  in  jeopardy,  Mr.  Toots  with, 
chuckles,  lapsed  out  at  the  door  : by  which,  after  looking 
in  again  two  or  three  times,  without  any  object  at  all, 
and  being  on  each  occasion  greeted  with  a fresh  run 
from  Diogenes,  he  finally  took  himself  off  and  got  away. 

s‘  Come,  then,  Di  ! Dear  Di  ! Make  friends  with  your 
new  mistress.  Let  us  love  each  other,  Di ! ” said  Flor- 
ence. fondling  his  shaggy  head.  And  Di,  the  rough 
and  gruff,  as  if  his  hairy  hide  were  pervious  to  the  tear 
that  dropped  upon  it,  and  his  dog’s  heart  melted  as  it 
fell,  put  his  nose  up  to  her  face,  and  swore  fidelity. 

Diogenes  the  man  did  not  speak  plainer  to  Alexander 
the  Great  than  Diogenes  the  dog  spoke  to  Florence.  He 
subscribed  to  the  offer  of  his  little  mistress  cheerfully, 
and  devoted  himself  to  her  service.  A banquet  was  im- 
mediately provided  for  him  in  a corner  ; and  when  he 
had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill,  he  went  to  the  window 
where  Florence  was  sitting,  looking  on,  rose  up  on  his 
hind  legs,  with  his  awkward  fore  paws  on  her  shoulders, 
licked  her  face  and  hands,  nestled  his  great  head  against 
her  heart,  and  wagged  his  tail  till  he  was  tired.  Finallyf 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


573 


Diogenes  coiled  himself  up  at  her  feet  and  went  to 
sleep. 

Although  Miss  Nipper  was  nervous  in  regard  of  dogs, 
and  felt  it  necessary  to  come  into  the  room  with  her 
shirts  carefully  collected  about  her,  as  if  she  were  cross- 
ing a brook  on  stepping-stones ; also  to  utter  little 
screams  and  stand  up  on  chairs  when  Diogenes  stretched 
himself ; she  was  in  her  own  manner  affected  by  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  could  not  see  Florence  so 
alive  to  the  attachment  and  society  of  this  rude  friend  of 
little  Paul's,  without  some  mental  comments  thereupon 
that  brought  the  water  to  her  eyes.  Mr.  Dombey,  as  a part 
of  her  reflections,  may  have  been,  in  the  association  of 
ideas,  connected  with  the  dog ; but,  at  any  rate,  after 
observing  Diogenes  and  his  mistress  all  the  evening,  and 
after  exerting  herself  with  much  good  will  to  provide 
Diogenes  a bed  in  an  ante-chamber  outside  his  mistress's 
door,  she  said  hurriedly  to  Florence,  before  leaving  her 
for  the  night : 

“ Your  pa’s  a going  off.  Miss  Floy,  to-morrow  morn« 
ing.” 

“ To-morrow  morning,  Susan  ? ” 

“Yes,  miss  ; that’s  the  orders.  Early.” 

“Do  you  know,”  asked  Florence,  without  looking  at 
her,  “where  papa  is  going,  Susan?” 

“ Not  exactly,  miss.  He’s  going  to  meet  that  precious 
major  first,  and  I must  say  if  I was  acquainted  with  any 
major  myself  (which  Heavens  forbid),  it  shouldn’t  be  a 
blue  one  ! ” 

“ Hush,  Susan  ! ” urged  Florence  gently. 

“Well,  Miss  Floy,”  returned  Miss  Nipper,  who  was 
full  of  burning  indignation,  and  minded  her  stops  even 
less  than  usual.  “I  can’t  help  it,  blue  he  is,  and  while 
I was  a Christian,  although  humble,  I would  have  nat- 
ural-coloured friends,  or  none.” 

It  appeared  from  what  she  added  and  had  gleaned 
down -stairs,  that  Mrs.  Chick  had  proposed  the  major 
for  Mr.  Dombey’s  companion,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey, 
after  some  hesitation,  had  invited  him. 

“ Talk  of  him  being  a change,  indeed  ! ” observed 
Miss  Nipper  to  herself  with  boundless  contempt.  “If 
he’s  a change  give  me  a constancy.” 

“ Hood  night,  Susan,”  said  Florence. 

“ Good  night,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy.” 

Her  tone  of  commiseration  smote  the  chord  so  often 
roughly  touched,  but  never  listened  to  while  she  or  any 
one  looked  on.  Florence  left  alone,  laid  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  and  pressing  the  other  over  her  swelling 
heart,  held  free  communication  with  her  sorrows. 

It  was  a wet  night  ; and  the  melancholy  rain  fell  pat- 
tering and  dropping  with  a wearied  sound.  A sluggish 


574 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


wind  was  blowing,  and  went  moaning  round  the  house, 
as  if  it  were  in  pain  or  grief.  A shrill  noise  quivered 
through  the  trees.  While  she  sat  weeping,  it  grew 
late,  and  dreary  midnight  tolled  out  from  the  steeples. 

Florence  was  little  more  than  a child  in  years — not 
yet  fourteen— and  the  loneliness  and  gloom  of  such  an 
hour  in  the  great  house  where  Death  had  lately  made 
its  own  tremendous  devastation,  might  have  set  an  older 
fancy  brooding  on  vague  terrors.  But  her  innocent  im- 
agination was  too  full  of  one  theme  to  admit  them. 
Nothing  wandered  in  her  thoughts  but  love — a wander- 
ing love,  indeed,  and  cast  away — but  turning  always  to 
her  father. 

There  wras  nothing  in  the  dropping  of  the  rain,  the 
moaning  of  the  wind,  the  shuddering  of  the  trees,  the 
striking  of  the  solemn  clocks,  that  shook  this  one 
thought,  or  diminished  its  interest.  Her  recollections 
of  the  dear  dead  boy — and  they  were  never  absent— 
were  itself ; the  same  thing.  And  oh,  to  be  shut  out  • 
to  be  so  lost : never  to  have  looked  into  her  father’s  face 
or  touched  him,  since  that  hour  ! 

She  could  not  go  to  bed,  poor  child,  and  never  had 
gone  yet,  since  then,  without  making  her  nightly  pil- 
grimage to  his  door.,  It  would  have  been  a strange  sad 
sight  to  see  her  now,  stealing  lightly  down  the  stairs 
through  the  thick  gloom,  and  stopping  at  it  with  a beat- 
ing heart,  and  blinded  eyes,  and  hair  that  fell  down 
loosely  and  unthought  of  : and  touching  it  outside  with 
her  wet  cheek.  But  the  night  covered  it,  and  no  one 
knew. 

The  moment  that  she  touched  the  door  on  this  night, 
Florence  found  that  it  was  open.  For  the  first  time  it 
stood  open,  though  by  but  a hair’s- breadth  : and  there 
was  a light  within.  The  first  impulse  of  the  timid 
child — and  she  yielded  to  it — was  to  retire  swiftly.  Her 
next,  to  go  back,  and  to  enter  ; and  this  second  impulse 
held  her  in  irresolution  on  the  staircase. 

In  its  standing  open,  even  by  so  much  as  that  chink, 
there  seemed  to  be  hope.  There  wras  encouragement 
in  seeing  a ray  of  light  from  within,  stealing  through 
the  dark  stern  doorway,  and  falling  in  a thread  upon 
the  marble  floor.  She  turned  back,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  did,  but  urged  on  by  the  love  within  her,  and 
the  trial  they  had  undergone  together,  but  not  shared  : 
and  with  her  hands  a little  raised  and  trembling  glided 
in. 

Her  father  sat  at  his  old  table  in  the  middle  room. 
He  had  been  arranging  some  papers,  and  destroying 
others,  and  the  latter  lay  in  fragile  ruins  before  him. 
The  rain  dripped  heavily  upon  the  glass  panes  in  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


575 


outer  room,  where  lie  had  so  often  watched  poor  Pftul9 
a baby  ; and  the  low  complainings  of  the  wind  were 
heard  without. 

But  not  by  him.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
table,  so  immersed  in  thought,  that  a far  heavier  tread 
than  the  light  foot  of  his  child  could  make,  might  have 
failed  to  rouse  him.  His  face  was  turned  towards  her. 
By  the  waning  lamp,  and  at  that  haggard  hour,  it  looked 
worn  and  dejected  ; and  in  the  utter  loneliness  surround- 
ing him,  there  was  an  appeal  to  Florence  that  struck 
home. 

“ Papa  ! papa  ! Speak  to  me,  dear  papa  ! ” 

He  started  at  her  voice,  and  leaped  up  from  his  seat. 
She  was  close  before  him  with  extended  arms,  but  he 
fell  back. 

“ What  is  the  matter?”  he  said,  sternly,  “Why  do 
you  come  here  ? What  has  frightened  you  ? ” 

If  anything  had  frightened  her,  it  was  the  face  he 
turned  upon  her.  The  glowing  love  within  the  breast 
of  his  young  daughter  froze  before  it,  and  she  stood  and 
looked  at  him  as  if  stricken  into  stone. 

There  was  not  one  touch  of  tenderness  or  pity  in  it, 
There  was  not  one  gleam  of  interest,  parental  recogni- 
tion, or  relenting  in  it.  There  was  a change  in  it,  but 
not  of  that  kind.  The  old  indifference  and  cold  con- 
straint had  given  place  to  something  : what,  she  never 
thought  and  did  not  dare  to  think,  and  yet  she  felt  it  in 
its  force,  and  knew  it  well  without  a name  ; that  as  it 
looked  upon  her,  seemed  to  cast  a shadow  on  her  head. 

Did  he  see  before  him  the  successful  rival  of  his  son, 
in  health  and  life  ? Did  he  look  upon  his  own  successful 
rival  in  that  son’s  affection  ? Did  a mad  jealousy  and 
withered  pride,  poison  sweet  remembrances  that  should 
have  endeared  and  made  her  precious  to  him  ? Could  it 
be  possible  that  it  was  gall  to  him  to  look  upon  her  in 
her  beauty  and  her  promise  : thinking  of  his  infant  boy  9 

Florence  had  no  such  thoughts.  But  love  is  quick  to 
know  when  it  is  spurned  and  hopeless  : and  hope  died 
out  of  hers,  as  she  stood  looking  in  her  father’s  face. 

“ I ask  you,  Florence,  are  you  frightened  ? Is  there 
anything  the  matter,  that  you  come  here  ? ” 

“ I came  papa — ” 

“ Against  my  wishes.”  Why  ?” 

She  saw  he  knew  why  : it  was  written  broadly  on  his 
face  : and  dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands  with  one 
prolonged  low  cry. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  It 
has  faded  from  the  air,  before  he  breaks  the  silence.  It 
may  pass  as  quickly  from  his  brain,  as  he  believes,  but 
it  is  there.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to 
come  ! 


578 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Be  took  her  by  the  arm.  His  hand  was  cold,  and 
loose,  and  scarcely  closed  upon  her. 

“ You  are  tired,  I dare  say/'  he  said,  taking  up  th^ 
light,  and  leading  her  towards  the  door,  “ and  want  rest. 
We  all  want  rest.  Go,  Florence.  You  have  been  dream- 
mg/’ 

The  dream  she  had  had,  was  over  then,  God  help  her  ! 
and  she  felt  that  it  could  never  more  come  back. 

“ I will  remain  here  to  light  you  up  the  stairs.  The 
whole  house  is  yours,  above  there,”  said  her  father,  slow- 
ly. “ You  are  its  mistress  now.  Good  night  ! ” 

Still  covering  her  face,  she  sobbed,  and  answered 
“ Good  night,  dear  papa,”  and  silently  ascended.  Once 
she  looked  back  as  if  she  would  have  returned  to  him, 
but  for  fear.  It  was  a momentary  thought,  too  hopeless 
to  encourage  ; and  her  father  stood  there  with  the  light 
-—hard,  unresponsive,  motionless — until  the  fluttering 
dress  of  his  fair  child  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come. 
The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof  : the  wind  that  mourns 
outside  the  door  : may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  mel- 
ancholy sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room, 
years  to  come  ! 

The  last  time  he  had  watched  her,  from  the  same 
place,  winding  up  those  stairs,  she  had  had  her  brother 
in  her  arms.  It  did  not  move  his  heart  towards  her  now, 
it  steeled  it : but  he  went  into  his  room,  and  locked  his 
door,  and  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  cried  for  his  lost 
boy. 

Diogenes  was  broad  awake  upon  his  post,  and  waiting 
for  his  little  mistress. 

**  Oh  Di  ! Oh  dear  Di ! Love  me  for  his  sake  ! ” 

Diogenes  already  loved  her  for  her  own,  and  didn’t 
care  how  much  he  showed  it.  So  he  made  himself  vast- 
ly ridiculous  by  performing  a variety  of  uncouth  bounces 
in  the  ante-chamber,  and  concluded,  when  poor  Florence 
was  at  last  asleep,  and  dreaming  of  the  rosy  children  op- 
posite, by  scratching  open  her  bedroom  door  : rolling  up 
his  bed  into  a pillow  : lying  down  on  the  boards  at  the 
full  length  of  his  tether,  with  his  head  towards  her  : 
and  looking  lazily  at  her,  upside  down,  out  of  the  tops 
of  his  eyes,  until  from  winking  and  winking  he  fell 
asleep  himself,  and  dreamed,  with  gruff  barks,  of  his 
enemy. 

END  OF  PART  ONE  OF  “ DOMBEY  AND  SON.” 


END  OF  VOLUME  ELEVEN, 


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